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sylphidine · 2 months ago

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[Fic] Call Signs, Chapter 40

Fandom: Deltarune

‘Verse: Human AU

Pairings: Swatch/Spamton [Swatchton]; Spamton/T.M. [Spamager], GiGi/Leroux [QueenKaard]

Characters: Spamton Addison, Swatch Paletta, T.M. Tinker, GiGi McCray, Leroux Kaard, Lance O'Toole, Kirov Rouvin, Umar Benton, Detective Dynah Unwin, Detective "Blooky" Knapp

Rating: Mature

Chapter title: Interface Screw - Afternoon Into Night, Part One

Chapter summary: "Some dance to remember, some dance to forget." Isn't that how the song goes?

Our dancers and their loved ones have a lot to go through before this day is over.

Author notes:

SIGNIFICANT contributions towards plot and dialogue made by beta-reader @jaimistoryteller Read their stuff!

Some Hometown folks making their first appearance in this fic. Wave hello to Undyne and Napstablook, everyone!

Content warnings are the same as have been for the last few chapters [stalkerish behavior, implied harm/danger to a child]. We're in murky waters here despite the brightness of the day.

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9:47PM, April 9th

"Hey, Dynah?"

"Yeah, Blooky?"

“Why were we given this assignment, anyway?” Detective Knapp grumbled. “We aren't the Health Department."

"Because Chief Flowers asked us to. He gets a little… dogged… when we get any kind of investigation having to do with a college. Since his oldest kid… you know.” Detective Unwin momentarily took one hand off the steering wheel to make a vague wave in the air.

One could almost hear the puzzle pieces snapping into place in Knapp’s mind. "Yeah,” they sighed, understanding clear in their eyes as Unwin snuck a quick look at them. “That makes sense. What's he expecting us to find here?"

"Eh,” Unwin shrugged, returning her attention to the road and marking off the mileage until the expected time of arrival at the hospital. “Could be anything. Petty stuff would be that somebody was selling food without a license. Let's hope we don't need to get into serious stuff."

"Cheers to that," said Knapp. "Anyway, it gets us out of the office."

Unwin showed all her sharp teeth to her patrol partner as she replied, "Let's hope for no incidents and no paperwork."

2:30AM, April 10th

There ended up being a LOT of paperwork.

12:30PM, April 9th

Kirov leaned against the empty table as he glanced at the time again, his foot tapped rapidly against the ground. Half-past noon. Umar Benton should have been here already with their supplies. They should have been all set up ages ago.

The longer he had to think about his encounter with Stanton a few hours ago, the more time he had to doubt himself. Even up to last night… no, even when he had woken up this morning… he’d had a plan, a goal.

But was it the right thing to do?

He had been so certain that the three of them… Stanton, the bartender, and the blonde… had been taunting him that night at Plato’s. That they looked down on him.

And when he’d gone over to listen to the music a little while ago, to kill time while waiting for his tardy roommate, the songs seemed to mock him.

Yet with how kind Stanton was at all other times.. maybe Kirov had been mistaken?

He hated second-guessing himself. It made him feel like his brain was full of bees.

Huffing, he finally caught sight of Umar and waved at him to draw his attention.

His stocky roommate was pulling a wagon behind him loaded up with everything for the table. A cooler full of ice, a plastic punchbowl, some smaller bowls where people could drop their monetary donations, a ladle, disposable cups, thirty-six half-pint mason jars thankfully wrapped with brown paper to keep them from breaking against each other, and a large box with a dozen two-liter bottles of kvass with corrugated dividers holding the bottles steady .

At least none of the jars are broken , he thought as he straightened up and pasted a fake smile on his face. For that, he could be grateful, even if he was frustrated from having to wait so long.

“Sorry I’m late,” Umar panted, wiping the sweat and drizzle from his brown forehead with an even browner hand.

“Not to worry, friend,” Kirov replied, mentally gritting his teeth. “We still have plenty of time!”

He propped a sign that read KVASS AND KOMPOT FOR UKRAINE against the front-side of the punchbowl. Then he set up the cups and wrote the word “donations” in curly print on the donation bowls, for all to see.

Beside him, Umar carefully set a few of the jars on the table, closer to the middle, so there was little risk of them getting knocked over and broken. At Kirov’s direction, he put some of the kvass bottles on ice in the cooler and rolled the wagon behind the table to be out of the way.

The vendor in the booth across from them glanced between the overcast sky and their table. Squinting, the vendor took notice of their sign and commented, “Yes, take your time. Ain’t like it’s better spent.”

Kirov bit back a sigh as he also looked at the sky that was threatening rain again. Today wasn’t going how he wanted. Hopefully that wasn’t a sign he needed to pay attention to.

He wanted to be as sure now as he’d been last night. He hated this feeling of uncertainty.

The first two jars of kompot were poured into the punchbowl. Kirov tried to keep smiling, but it was getting more difficult by the minute.

1:10PM, April 9th

As the three of them finished lunch, Spamton knew that he hadn’t fooled Swatch.

His beautiful, clever lover had watched him don The Suit this morning, with no more reaction than a raised eyebrow. Spamton had almost hoped that Swatch would ask him why he was wearing it today.

He was wearing it to expiate his sins. As a way to atone.

Instead of bilking people out of money for a smart home system that didn’t work, targeting the elderly for something they didn’t need and couldn’t afford, he was raising money to help people escape from horrors.

He needed to be able to look at The Suit and not think of Mike. To create new memories tied to it. Positive ones. Hopeful ones.

He needed to channel whatever positive energy there had EVER been in being a Big Shot, and use that energy to get people to feel like they could actually make a difference in the world.

Which is why, when he had run into Kirov Rouvin at the coffee stall in the morning, he had felt compelled to return the younger man’s cheerful greeting and to praise him when he heard that Kirov had a vendor booth at the Festival. It had been good to see Kirov finding a purpose, a cause to get behind. Perhaps even help him find his place in life.

If Trez had been with him then, Spamton didn’t doubt that she’d have made a not-too-subtle face when Kirov insisted on paying for the three coffees, including the one for Swatch.

He didn’t doubt that Swatch, and Trez as well for that matter, were right to be suspicious. He had surprised himself by going on the offensive with his song selections when he had noticed Kirov hovering at the edges of the dance floor earlier.

Hopefully the message had been taken. He really wanted to just enjoy today, and tonight, with his lovers.

But for now, he had another set of records to spin.

1:40PM, April 9th

T.M. knew exactly how she wanted to kill the next couple of hours, and had no trouble convincing Swatch to join her. The coast was clear at her dorm suite, since Her Majesty and Mister Wormyhead were committed to the 2pm dance session.

How many more opportunities was she going to get to just cuddle with her bestie, neither of them needing to talk? Graduation would be upon them both in a matter of weeks.

So she set her phone alarm for 3:15pm as Swatch stretched out on her bed. She lay down and curled herself into their arms.

If some tears leaked from her eyes and soaked into the shoulder of their shirt, as she fell asleep, Swatch was too much of a gentleman to tell her.

2:01PM, April 9th

Back in his booth, Spamton was pleasantly surprised at the turnout for the Medieval, Baroque, Georgian & Regency Dance hour. He’d expected maybe ten people to show up. He did a quick head count of thirty, as Leroux did the top-of-the-hour intro. Spamton regretted that he hadn’t thought far enough ahead to borrow some kind of Shakespearean costume from the theater department, the way most of the dancers probably had. It looked like the casts of THE TUDORS and BRIDGERTON were having a “take no prisoners” dance-off.

Oh, well. He could pretend he was a time traveler who’d gone back too far.

He kept his hands busy segueing between two different albums of Scottish jigs and reels that Eos had lent him, before switching in Handel’s Water Music and the Istanpitta recordings, to keep everyone guessing.

The group on the dance floor definitely having the most fun, though, were Leroux, GiGi, and Leroux's son Lance. Leroux was in his element, guiding the steps of the other two through the movements, making their own little circle. Several of the other couples and groups around them were audibly cheering them on. The little boy was grinning wider and laughing harder with every new song that Spamton queued up.

Lance could have been a doppelganger of himself, a young’un who just HAD to respond to music by kicking up his heels and throwing his whole soul into it.

Spamton prayed under his breath, if there WAS a Heaven listening, that this particular little boy would never have his joy stifled by anyone.

In terms of sheer professional satisfaction, this was going to be a hard music set to beat. But Spamton had his own reasons to be looking forward to the Pajama Party set he was planning for later in the afternoon.

2:40PM, April 9th

“‘Tis a pity I could not arrangeth something more formal,” Leroux said in an apologetic tone when he was near enough to be heard. “Country dancing doth hold a special place in my heart.”

GiGi looked into his face as he passed in front of her and then to the side. She noticed the sparkle in his eyes, and she felt a rush of warmth shoot up her spine. She had Lance’s hands clasped in both of hers, while she tried to keep up with the kick-step jig that the boy was making up as he went along. Leroux, in his turn, was doing some very fancy and stylized footwork, making a circle of his own around GiGi’s and Lance’s two-person circle.

“This is so much fun!” She heard different versions of that from nearly every side of the pavilion that their threesome’s dance steps took them. She hadn’t noticed all the people gathering to watch the dancers, but this WAS a festival, after all. And even if the weather wasn’t the greatest, Garlic Park usually had a crowd of fresh-air fanatics and health nuts strolling its paths on Saturdays.

Either way, she couldn’t imagine being happier than she was at this moment.

Well, maybe she COULD, but she highly doubted she was getting a proposal today. No need to take the spotlight away from Leroux’s son.

The last notes of what the strange robotic DJ had called “Party Mix 1350 CE” faded out, and there was a loud burst of applause from dancers and spectators alike.

GiGi squeezed Lance’s hands affectionately and then leaned down to give him a hug. She asked, “Are You Having A Good Birthday, Little Man?”

“The best, girldad!” He then wiggled out of her grasp, letting Leroux pick him up and swoop him through the air like a chubby little airplane.

It was nearing three o’clock. A delicious smell of grilled chicken wafted through the air.

“Who would like to taketh a stroll with me and purchase some kebabs?” Leroux asked, with his arms full of wiggly child.

“Oh, boy, I would!” Lance shouted happily. “Can we?”

“May We, You Mean?” GiGi interjected before her brain caught up with her mouth, and she winced. It wasn’t her place… yet… to correct Leroux’s son’s grammar.

Fortunately, her boyfriend didn’t seem to mind, as he replied for both himself and his little boy, “Yes, we both can and may.” He shifted Lance to a one-armed carry and extended the other arm to GiGi. “Let’s!”

She moved to wrap her own arm around his waist as they walked towards the food stalls.

5PM, April 9th

It was gone.

He couldn’t find the jar he had fully intended earlier that day to set aside and dump into a Port-a-Potty, rather than to use as an instrument of revenge.

Now he couldn’t believe what Umar had just told him.

“You what!” Kirov snarled as he lost all semblance of patience. He must have misheard. That had to be it. There was no way that he heard right. He should have taken the weather as a sign. Today had definitely gone wrong. “Oxuš ällarg oruš kariyna,” he muttered under his breath, a phrase he hadn’t heard in years but was completely fitting for the situation at hand.

“I didn’t know!” Umar’s eyes were wide with panic. “I thought they were supposed to be mixed together!” One brown hand waved at the now-empty jars. “There were only two jars left, and one of them just said ‘berry’, and you were adding all kinds of other berries last night.” He was breathless as he rapidly explained it. “And since it looked like you were running out, I thought this would help things go a little further. At least people seem to like it, there’s barely any kompot left, just kvass .”

No, no, no. Kirov chanted the words to himself like a litany.

Chest tightening, each breath more labored than the previous as he considered the implications. If Umar had poured the whole jar of "special juice" into the punchbowl when he refilled it…

His eyes darted around the area, over the gathering, pausing on those that he knew had stopped at their booth.

That meant…

Forcing himself to take a calming breath, he tried to figure out how to fix this. There had to be a way. He just had to think it through. Quickly. He wrestled his expression away from the fury and panic, into something a bit more amused and pleasant. Some would even call it playful, if not for the edge to it.

“Ah, well, what’s done is done, friend!” He chuckled dryly, even almost sounded normal. “No one has asked for their donation back, so they must have liked the taste, no?”

He hoped no one noticed his prior outburst. That would be a real problem later, when it came out that there had been food tampering, if they’d heard his tone. With so many people having drunk the kompot now, instead of the three for which the fellonwort juice had been intended, there’s no way the poisoning wouldn’t be investigated. He had to make sure that the suspicion didn't fall on him.

Umar gave a relieved smile. “If the reaction of the last group is anything to go by, they loved it!” He nodded excitedly, “They even came back and bought a couple more glasses to bring to one of the DJs!”

To one of the DJs? To Stanton? Now that I’d made up my mind to call the whole thing off? Universe, why do you hate me?.

He mused for a few more , working on coming up with a plan. I’d better do something.

Kirov chuckled again, struck by a dangerous idea. It should keep him free of suspicion. “That’s good!” He exclaimed as he reached for a cup, “And I am going to claim the privilege of the last glass!”

He could only hope that the fellonwort mixed in was diluted enough as he suited action to words, ladled the dregs of the kompot, and downed it in one go. It was surprisingly sweet, even as his nerves caused a bitter aftertaste.

“Please take one of the kvass bottles for yourself!” He smiled and motioned to the cooler with its melting ice. “We have raised much in donations!”

4PM, April 9th

Hard to believe that the accident ending their basketball career had been five months ago. Swatch felt as limber and loose on the dance floor as they ever had doing a full-court press or a banana cut against an opposing team. The impact on their ankles and knees wasn’t nearly as ferocious, for starters.

Their nap with Moggy had definitely recharged their batteries. And their current outfit certainly added to the mobility and freedom they felt. It was a pajama party, after all.

Swatch had donned their Christmas onesie, decorated with candy canes and holly leaves, for this timeslot. Moggy wore her double-zero football jersey nightgown.

Both of them sensibly wore sneakers instead of slippers. There was only so far either of them wanted to go along with the theme, and for this session, “DJ Dreamweaver” seemed to be pulling out all the stops. No need to break yet another leg by sliding dangerously on a slick floor.

Moggy and Swatch had skipped across the dance floor towards each other as the opening drumbeats, hand-claps, and guitar chords of “Dancing With Myself” rang out. The energy didn’t show any signs of letting up with any of the next few tunes.

And then Spamton, sly devil that he was, faded out “Into The Groove” and faded in “All Night”. Swatch couldn’t see it, but they didn’t doubt that their boyfriend was smirking behind that ridiculous helmet. That particular Parov Stelar song HAD to be the equivalent of a thrown-down gauntlet.

Oh, it was ON! Challenge accepted. They grinned and rolled their shoulders.

If Spamton wanted a bird-of-paradise courtship display, Spamton was going to GET a bird-of-paradise courtship display.

“You might want to back up, Moggy,” they warned in a gentle tone.

The grin on T.M.’s face widened, and she asked as she moved out of wingspan range, “Gonna bust some Sven Otten moves?”

“Damn straight.” They agreed, their smile turned nearly manic.

Praying that their knee wouldn’t pop back out, Swatch waggled their hips and built up their footwork from a slow swaying to a faster crossed-ankle tap dancing style, their arms alternately held close to their body and fully splayed out.

Thank goodness this song was only two and a half minutes long.

And there were still more than thirty minutes of this set to get through.

They were definitely going to need to rehydrate when this was all over.

As if Spamton had read Swatch’s mind from across the dance floor, the next song that flowed off the turntables was “Red Rain”. A slower tempo, which was most welcome.

T.M. reached out a hand to Swatch to pull them back into the new rhythm, but there was a slight frown on her face.

They asked, “Anything the matter?” when the steps brought them close enough to hear each other.

“Kinda a grim song to play at a fundraiser for peace,” she replied.

They considered it, then asked, “You think he’s doing the ‘secret code’ thing again?”

She shook her head, “Nah. Probably just liked the percussion. But he’s definitely acting weird today.”

“Glad you noticed, and that it’s not just me.”

The two spun away from one another in their impromptu foxtrot. When they faced one another again, Swatch said. “I’ve got an idea as to why, but I want to talk to him before I jump to conclusions.”

“Uh huh. It’s almost like he’s high or something.”

The whispered words of one song segued into the jazzy opening bars of “Safe and Sound”, and Swatch and T.M. concentrated on picking up the pace.

Solving the mystery would have to wait until after this set. This was Spamton’s last obligation for the day, and then the three of them could go back to Tibbetts Avenue and unwind with a movie.

After getting something to drink. Replacing fluids after all this exercise was a priority.

10:02PM, April 9th

T.M. sat on the hard plastic chair in the waiting room next to GiGi. She had no idea how long the two of them had been holding hands.

How had this wonderful day turned into such a disastrous one?

11:12PM, April 9th

Pain radiated from his stomach outward. Muscles tightened and cramped. No matter how much water he drank, he couldn’t rid himself of the thirst that built up. When it got to be too much to handle, he had joined the others at the hospital, where a triage center had been set up for those who were suffering from "food poisoning".

It was there, in the examination room he’d finally been shown to, that he was confronted by the severity of the situation. Why hadn’t he made certain the poison was not able to be added? Why hadn’t he thought this through better? He should have gotten rid of the berries and their juice as soon as he started having doubts.

“I know why you did it,” a friendly voice stated, drawing him from his pain-filled musing and reminding him that he was no longer alone in the room. And why.

“I did something like it in grammar school when I was a Girl Scout. I was jealous over some other girl’s badges…” She paused, sliding her chair closer to the gurney he was lying on, until he met her gaze. “Seemed like all she had to do was breathe, and she’d get a new Scout badge. So one afternoon on a Scout camping weekend, I picked some berries and did a switcheroo with the troop leaders' berry stash when we were all making our ‘wilderness survival’ dinner.”

Swallowing harshly, he listened to the plainclothes detective who was speaking quietly and thoughtfully. Keen eyes watched him as she spoke, observing each of his reactions. She sported an aquamarine mohawk with shaved sides and a black eye patch studded with silver rivets, which set off her sharp cheekbones and predator-toothy smile.

If Kirov had not been feeling so ill, he would have been attracted to her despite her gender.

As it was, the terror of discovery made the rolling in his stomach so much worse.

That was before considering the horror he felt when he discovered that at least one child had accidentally gotten the fellonwort mixture. He had never wanted to hurt someone innocent. Only those he thought were being cruel to him. Each moment of the last several days flashed through his mind. Every choice. Each fork in the road that led to this moment. All the thoughts and feelings that prompted and drove him.

It took every ounce of control to keep the bile down as Detective Unwin’s next words confirmed his fear. “Smart of you to poison yourself. That’s what I did, too, to avoid suspicion.”

Suddenly light-headed, he couldn’t tell if he was relieved that the detective knew or terrified that she knew. Now what was going to happen?

#deltarune fanfiction #human!au #fic: call signs #sylph writes #spamton addison #swatch paletta #swatchton #terese marlena tinker #kirov rouvin #deltarune chapter 2 #spamton g spamton #swatch deltarune #tasque manager #virovirokun #undyne #napstablook

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raccontidialiantis · 2 months ago

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Lei t’ha preso e ti rivolta come un calzino

Era iniziata quasi per sfida, con gli amici al bar! Blaaaah… niente di più banale, cheap! Lei, professoressa, passava sempre davanti a voi ogni giorno all’una e mezza, uscendo da scuola. Tu avevi chiuso la bottega poco distante all’una e al solito prendevi l’aperitivo con quei tre merluzzi dei tuoi colleghi commercianti vicini di negozio seduti al tavolino. Paletta per le votazioni virtuali in testa, facevate la Tac a tutte. Lei è una signora di evidente ma discreto fascino; molto raffinata. Con indosso sempre toilette e accessori di indubbio buon gusto, lasciava dietro di sé una scia di profumo che sapeva di seduzione, di buono. Ti lasciava dentro una fortissima voglia di possedere quell’animale splendido. Erotismo e fascino del proibito. “Tsè: io quella ci metto non più di una settimana a farmela…” Stendiamo un pietoso velo sulla scommessa che ne seguì. Iniziasti a cercare di agganciarla, con delle scuse stupide e accompagnandola alla fermata del bus alla fine delle lezioni.

Lei, muta e camminando di fretta, ti guardava ma ti gelava con gli occhi. Senza una parola infatti ti faceva capire: “ma che vuoi, pivello? Non vedi che stai cercando di abbordare una donna sposata e che comunque di certo non è alla tua portata? Smamma immediatamente, che ho una casa e una famiglia da mandare avanti…” Poi, come tutte le cose che capitano perché l’universo congiura e dispone per farle accadere, contro tutte le possibilità, quando avevi perso ogni speranza, a lei questo tuo interesse continuo, assiduo e insistente è iniziato a sembrare un bel gioco, un trastullo quotidiano in fondo semplice e che gratificava la sua femminilità, repressa a lungo e opacizzata dagli anni, dalla routine quotidiana. Alla fine che c’è di male? Le sembrava qualcosa cui poter pur dedicare due-minuti-due, prima di andare a casa. E camminando insieme verso la fermata, ti sei accorto che ogni giorno rallentava un po’ di più e poi ha perfino iniziato a risponderti.

Addirittura sorridendoti! Divertita… Dopo un po’ di giorni si ravviava i capelli, inclinava la testa, si fermava e ti guardava fisso negli occhi. Ti soppesava. Varrà la pena, questo bel fusto maturo? Infine, mentre sorrideva schiva, ha iniziato a mostrarti l’interno di entrambi i polsi. Un gesto molto intimo, per una donna. Lei stava cominciando a mandare tutti i segnali espliciti di apertura e resa, di fronte all’uomo che iniziava a interessarle sessualmente. Da cosa nasce cosa e quindi sei riuscito a vincere una a una tutte le sue resistenze, le diffidenze. A far cadere tutte le sue possibili barriere morali e portartela in una camera d’albergo. Hai così scoperto un vulcano di sensualità, una femmina pura e molto evoluta. Sessualmente insaziabile, espertissima nei giochi più disinibiti. Ti ha obbligato a dominarla, indossava il collare! Dolcissima. Si metteva di schiena e ti chiedeva di riempirla col tuo seme o la tua saliva. “Volevi la donna matura ed esperta, bello, no? Eccotela, adesso. Lavora duro. Guadagnati il tuo piacere.”

Inutile dire che hai perso la scommessa e con gli amici di lei non parli più. Loro hanno capito. Scommessa persa, perché per conquistarla ti ci è voluto ben più di un mese. Ed è stata una cosa difficile, laboriosa e totalizzante: la chiamano innamorarsi. A qualsiasi età. Gli amici sono spariti dal sottofondo della scena. Immediatamente. T’ha tenuto sulla corda. Solo dopo una ventina di giorni infatti t’ha dato il numero del suo cellulare. E così hai potuto instaurare un dialogo: segretissimo ma sincero, fatto di frasi gentili e spesso anche molto osè. Che a lei poi piacciono molto: ogni donna ufficialmente trova sgradevole ricevere frasi esplicite. Ma in realtà, se formulate con il suo consenso, col dovuto garbo e con rispetto, anche le frasi di passione maschile più ardite fanno decisamente breccia, nei sensi e nella psiche di una donna assetata d’amore. Prova. Si aprirà presto al tuo desiderio, vedrai. Inevitabile.

E allora oggi eccoti qui: ben cotto, come un hamburger di sabato sera al pub. Non sai proprio benissimo come “cavalcare la tigre” che hai liberato dalla gabbia. Scherza con te. Ti scrive che sei il suo giocattolo preferito, il suo tesoro di maschio segreto e adoratissimo. Hai dieci anni più di suo figlio maggiore, ma tra voi due è lei quella che sembra una ragazzina: una creatura capricciosa, innamorata e bellissima. Le brillano gli occhi, quando guardandoti si copre per tre secondi il volto e il sorriso con i capelli. Ha classe da vendere: è molto intelligente, sa come gestire questo vostro intreccio d’anime senza che la sua famiglia o chiunque attorno a voi ne abbia a soffrire. Pegno d’amore segreto, ha voluto che tu assistessi senza reagire in alcun modo a un suo ultimo rapporto con l’amante storico. L’uomo di cui tu ignoravi l’esistenza e che avrebbe congedato di lì a poco, per dedicarsi solo a te.

Lui piangeva, mentre la scopava continuando a desiderarla da morire. Invece tu, nascosto tra i cespugli, la guardavi godere in macchina. Bellissima: un capolavoro di sensualità e calore femminile. Ti guardava negli occhi, sotto i colpi di quell’uomo, un vecchio ma valido stallone: suo cognato vedovo da anni, il fratello di suo marito. L'uomo che comunque avrebbe abbandonato al suo destino di lì a poco. Lui ha dovuto farsene una ragione e passarti il testimone. Era distrutto dal dolore, ma la sua bellissima fica comanda. Ti spompa. Ti consuma letteralmente. È molto esigente e devi tornare subito rigido, dopo esserle venuto dentro. Ti lavora a lungo e infine ti beve con sete e arsura di gola. Lei ama da pazzi farti sborrare nella sua bocca e giocare con il tuo seme, prima di ingoiarlo. Poi ti sorride e ti bacia, giocando di lingua in modo sapiente. E tu non puoi fare altro che irrigidirti nuovamente. Lo fa apposta.

A volte sei addirittura spaventato: ti sembra di avere a che fare con una troia da bordello, di quelle di una volta. L’avresti mai immaginato, quando inarrivabile e altera vi passava accanto al tavolino del bar? Arriva a casa tua, ti fa spogliare nudo e t'accarezza il petto pieno di peli, arrivando piano al tuo inguine. Ti mordicchia i capezzoli. Sei esasperato dalla voglia. La tua mascolinità è tesa: vorresti possederla subito, ma lei invece ti fa cenno di aspettare e sederti sul divano. Si toglie la gonna e siede comoda su una poltroncina. Si tocca la passera con trasporto e grande passione autoerotica. Fa l’amore con sé stessa. È indubbiamente uno spettacolo per cui ringraziare Dio. Ti fa eccitare, ti intima di non avvicinarti, se non quando te lo permetterà. Addirittura, alcune volte dandosi piacere davanti a te lei è venuta, rapidamente s’è rivestita e poi, senza neanche farsi sfiorare dalle tue mani o dalle tue labbra, ha preso e se n'è andata, voltandosi solo un attimo per sorriderti. Sadica.

Allora tu non hai potuto far altro che respirare la sua scia di profumo lasciata nella stanza. Sei pazzo del suo corpo caldo e ancora splendido di mamma e sei stupito da quante cose ti insegna: ogni giorno una tecnica nuova, una nuova modalità di eccitazione e trattenimento del pene nei suoi adorati anfratti. Ti ha fatto prendere confidenza con le tecniche di stimolazione anale del maschio. Stai seguendo un vero e proprio corso di laurea in amore e sessuologia pratica! Gioca a fare la preda, cerca di protrarre il rapporto sessuale il più a lungo possibile. Di posticipare il tuo orgasmo. Le piacciono tutti gli elementi della dominazione e ti insegna come far godere una donna, come liberarla progressivamente da ogni inibizione. La sua pelle t’ha stregato. Sei divorziato, sei stato sposato, ma una donna così preziosa e che trasudi eros da ogni poro non l’avevi mai conosciuta, prima.

Piccoli passi d’amore: ogni giorno diventi sempre più esperto, dedito a lei e innamorato. La situazione inizia a farsi pericolosa per entrambi: sei diventato addirittura… geloso! Le hai chiesto infatti di non far più l’amore con suo marito. Ora lei sta pensando a come instradare e canalizzare propriamente le tue pulsioni, senza ferire il tuo amor proprio e il tuo morboso attaccamento. Però mantenendo comunque viva e tranquilla questa coinvolgente relazione segreta. Senza che il suo coniuge debba restare umiliato. Lui infatti, ignaro di tutto, la scopa contento e felice ogni volta che lei vuole. Perché lei di sesso ne vuole tanto. E spesso. Volevi un’avventuretta e invece ti ritrovi… nell’occhio del tornado! “Bisogna stare attenti a formulare dei desideri: c’è il concreto rischio che si avverino.” E poi, visto che non si può evitarla, comunque bisogna imparare a danzare sotto la pioggia. Con naturale leggerezza.

RDA

#raccontidialiantis #rda

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