Rolling In The Mud Of Semordnilap free porn video

The Astro Van’s engine screams like a wounded animal as it drifts in a wide arc under the bright metallic rain of tracer rounds. Most of them miss, except the ones that don’t. They blast down through the passenger seat with the trailing scent of brimstone. My asshole clenches, waiting for the end. It doesn’t arrive. What does is a thunderous crack, followed by two loud, concussive explosions. The road in front of me disappears in a haze of vaporized concrete dust. I pull hard on the wheel and floor it, jumping the curb to plow through the faded image of a wolf howling at the moon.

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‘Ninety-Two percent charge, Mr. Blake,’ a robotically feminine voice chirps into my ear as I book it with a limp through the skeletal remains of the Power and Light District.

Eight percent remaining. Eight minutes of hell. For the six-hundredth and sixty-fifth time, I wish I hadn’t taken Ptolemy’s goddamn job. If I ever fix this mess and see that greasy blob of wet shit again, I’m going to do him like I did the Italians in Florence.

‘Easy,’ he’d said. ‘Simple. It’s the Midwest after all. Your old childhood… stomping ground. A sprinkle of seduction. A dash of thievery. Maybe even a little fun to be had for a change. But… ah. I digress. Fun isn’t you, is it Mr. Blake? Mhmm. I keep forgetting. In fact, this particular job is likely beneath you. And you do ever so hate the Midwest. My apologies. I’ll get one of my students to complete it. Blaise, dear? Could you come in for a moment.’

Beneath you... The magical tonic that never fails to rile my overinflated ego and sharply tuned narcissism.

And so, here I am, tired, hungry, and pissed off as my lungs scream in agony, my legs on the precipice of turning to hospital jello.

I turn the corner and barrel into the shadow I’ve been playing cat and mouse with. We go down in a tangle of flailing limbs, clawing nails, and heavy grunts. I punch out and miss quite tragically.

Fist eats concrete.

The pain is blinding.

“I’m going to enjoy this, Aidan,” a voice purrs into my ear as something sharp is pressed against my side. There’s a familiar metallic click and I instinctively death roll like a crocodile, summoning every last shred of energy I have. The shadow slinks off like a striper’s bra with the unspoken promise of more to follow.

‘Ninety-eight percent, Mr. Blake.’

I climb woozily to my feet, blinking away a river of blood from a cut above my eye.

“Got ya now, fucker,” the shadow croons, leveling a futuristic shotgun at me.

‘100%, Mr. Blake.’

Luminescent muzzle fire billows out in a scattered blue dance of distorting, sulfuric flame a mere flaccid penis length from my already too fucking scarred face and its once roguishly good looks. I reel futilely back in slow motion as I feel the nauseatingly familiar tug on my bellybutton that yanks me back the other way into what I’m bloody well hoping is the lovely, swirling miasma of death’s disgustingly welcome embrace. There’s even a little smile in that blue glow that has me excited for a split second until the tinnitus sets in. It’s soft as first, like the buzzing of a bee. But as the swirl speeds up, it gets louder, like a toddler banging pots in a fit of rage. The goggles burn like a motherfucker and I’m yanked further into the swirl. And, as a testament of confirmation to my continuing shit luck, it turns out the grinning smile isn’t ole Lady Death’s. It’s his. And it’s reversing quickly into a hideous snarl of petulant rage.

The Shadow throws what looks like a grenade at me as the tinnitus plateaus with a volcanic boom and I start projectile vomiting. The grenade shimmers and puffs into a cloud of cosmic dust as a wormhole reminiscent of an old Sci-Fi classic I watched as a kid yawns open and swallows me whole.

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‘Warning. Zero Slips Remaining. Warning. Zero Slips Remaining,’ the robotic voice chirps in my ear.

I wake up in a pool of my own piss and vomit and… I shove a hand down my pants… thank fuck, no shit this time. Small goddamn win. I suppose I’ll take it.

I may not know a lick about quantum physics and time travel, but I do know one thing. McFly had it easy. The actual traveling part of time travel isn’t fun. Nor it is “stylish.” It’s a ruthlessly cruel and vindictive bitch, as evidenced by the state of yet another pair of ruined pants.

“Target location,” I ask the robotic voice.

“Searching… searching… searching… Unable to acquire. Populating list of theoretical locations.”

I’m able to commit five of them to memory before the robotic voice downshifts into static garble followed by repeating series of error messages and flashing warning lights.

I rip the goggles off and throw them away.

They implode in a swirling burst of dark, phosphorescent light.

“Shit,” I sigh, shoulders sagging in defeat.

The concussive pulse that follows knocks me back down into my puddle of lukewarm vomit.

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“Duuuuude, I dig the Knight Rider look,” a pimple-faced cashier tells me, giving my ‘new’ Thrift-Heaven ensemble a once over. “Hey, Jenny. Doesn’t he look like The Hoff from Knight Rider? Even picked out that leather jacket I had my eye on.”

A plain jane with a messy red ponytail looks up from her stooled perch, rolls her eyes, and goes back to blowing gum bubbles while she paints her nails virgin white.

Undeterred, pimple-face continues. “Seriously, man. You should go on that Evil Twins Look-A-Like show. The one on ABC? You’d kill it. That scars are wicked. Like Murdoc in MacGyver. But maybe grow the hair out and get one of those Trans Ams and…”

Untethered by fatigue and frustration, I snap. I yank pimple-faced, nametag Steve, forward by his clip-on tie.

“Listen here, fuckface,” I growl. “The nineties are bad enough. I’m not in the mood for your pop-culture regurgitation. Now here, take this,” I shove a wad of damp dollar bills into his breast pocket, “and shut the fuck up. And for your own sake, shave that disgusting mustache off. You look like a serial rapist, Stevie. Which is why little Jenny here, doesn’t give a fuck what I’m doing to you. Nod if you understand.”

Steve nods, face torn between confusion, horror, and the reality he’s probably shit himself and hasn’t figured it out yet.

“Excellent.” I release his tie and pat him lightly on the cheek. “These are on you, kid.” I pluck a pair of aviators off a rack and slide them on. “What do you think, Jenny?”

She looks up at me with big doe eyes. “I…I…. uh?” she stammers.

I wink and she swoons, round cheeks flushing hot.

“Think you could help me with a few addresses, Jen?”

“Yea.”

I flash her a smile and she melts, nipples poking through the thin material of her obviously altered Thrift-Heaven uniform.

“You have… really pretty eyes,” she murmurs softly, uncrossing her legs. “Like… boulder opals.” She licks her lips and eye-fucks me with Catholic schoolgirl guilt.

My smile widens and I breathe a sigh of relief that at least one thing still makes sense. I’m Aidan fucking Blake and damn if I’m not the right kind of wrong, even on the wrong side of forty.

Apartment? Nothing.

Library? A surprising number of nubile co-eds I wish I had time for, yes, but no. Not there either.

Three locations left. It’s a small number. A manageable number. ‘Beneath me.’ Any halfway literate idiot with a sense of direction could do it. That’s not the problem though. The problem is the shadow that’s been stalking me for the last dozen or so slips, cockblocking the solution to the riddle I’m stuck with. The problem is that the sky above me, if you know where to look, is starting to unzip. Tear at the seams.

The problem is that the note, scrawled on a piece of torn yellow legal paper and stuffed into a biometric safe with said ‘time-goggles’, is weighing me down. Dictating my actions. Playing me like a puppet on strings.

Had I known four ridiculously strung together words into a twisted joke would led to… this, I may have just called it a life and eaten a bullet rather than put those goggles on. Fucking Ptolemy. Was he screwing with me? Was this a test?

I’m not sure why I care so much. Not giving a damn was my specialty. It simplified everything.

Was it self-preservation? Because that’s a rather empty explanation. And the fact that empty explanations now bother me, vexes me.

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“You’ve got to be shitting me,” I mutter, staring at the logo emblazoned on the glass windows. I really must have fucked the timeline’s ass bloody to wind up in a place like this. Karmic justice if you believed in that sort of hokey Buddhist bullshit, which, given what’s been happening to me, maybe I should.

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“Hi, welcome to Hooters. Are you dining alone today?” nametag Krystal (poor girl never had a chance) asks with a bubbly, valley girl blitzkrieg.

I nod, transfixed by a knotted-off tank top of white cotton straining to contain a pornographic set of sun kissed tits. I’m acutely reminded that I haven’t fucked so much as my right hand since that disastrous night.

“Follow me,” Krystal singsongs with disarmingly fake enthusiasm.

Humming a Janet Jackson hit, she leads me to a booth in the back corner, orange clad ass swaying hypnotically.

“Your server will be with you shortly,” she says, leaning in close to fill my nostrils with coco shea butter, vanilla, and years of daddy angst I wish I had time to take advantage of in a restroom stall.

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I doodle on a napkin, mind stuck in a lake of quicksand surrounded by rusted barbed wire. You’d think after so many slips, so many lived failures, I’d at least have this part down to a science. All I had to do was nuke her world with a salvo of honesty, no matter how strange and unlikely it seemed. And therein lies the first problem. If the truth sets you free, I’ve been chained since conception. I’ve worn lies like a carapace all my life. Stacy McGill’s lifeless blue eyes can… could, attest to that.

The second is that no matter how finely I weave my lies to avoid the truth, she easily deconstructs them into their rotting, bullshit soup. The romantic angle failed. The seduction angle failed. The rave scene was a disaster. I’ve been shot at, maced, and kneed in the balls by her more times than The Shadow has drawn blood. Given who and what she is, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by that anymore.

I'm beginning to believe it’s a cosmic joke at my expense. Or divine wrath brought down by Stacey, or, more likely, her crazed Protestant Priest of a father.

“Cute… panda?” says a voice with the flavor of Fireball Whiskey.

I crumple the napkin in my fist and look up.

Nametag Nadia, hips cocked, wears a playful smile on strawberry lips.

She’s… not what I expected. Which is to say, she’s never quite what I expect. Each slip, each deviation from the original time stream I fumble with, intentionally or unintentionally, causes alterations. Sometimes they’re extreme. Sometimes they’re subtle. Often times, they’re murderous psychopaths. It’s a twisted game of Russian Roulette.

This version, however, floors me with the improbable genetic makeup. She could be the lovechild of a young Alicia Silverstone and Haven Gaston, with the feathered golden mane of Farah Fawcett. I find myself split between a desperate need to devour her and wanting to preserve her innocent glow. Until I find her eyes and I involuntarily recoil. They’re the one, unchanging, unsettling constant.

“Not that I’m not flattered, but you’d better not be undressing me beneath those shades, Mr. Panda,” Nadia says, eyes twinkling.

“Light sensitivity,” I lie.

Her smile turns into an apologetic frown. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t…”

“It’s fine,” I interrupt. “I’ll take a craft beer. Whatever the special is.”

“Is that all?” she asks.

I nod, but she doesn’t move to leave. She’s rooted to her spot an arm’s length away, chewing a pouty lower lip while looking suddenly perplexed. “Do I… know you?” Her eyes scan for traces of recognition and I pull back uncomfortably.

“Unlikely,” I lie again.

“Strange…I…” she shakes her head, cutting off midsentence. “I’ll be back with your beer in a sec,” she tells me.

I nod, and off she goes, leaving me to my thoughts and an unwelcome dose of second-guessing.

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A loud crash and a deliciously familiar scream of pain shatters my stupor.

“What the hell was that, ‘Dia? Was that karate? Ohmigod, is that bone? I think I’m going to be sick,” Krystal gags, a Chicago accent eating through the valley girl act.

“What the FUCK is going on out here?” bellows a deeper voice, followed by the heaving paunch of a red-faced, rotund giant.

“This bitch broke my fucking arm,” moans a writhing meat sack wearing oversized flannel and scuffed combat boots.

“I warned you to stop touching my ass, pervert,” Nadia hisses, delicate features contorted into a mask of rage and horrified shock.

“Fuck you, you stupid slut. My father’s lawyers will raze this place to the ground. I’ll have you…”

Nadia’s foot slams into his nose with a satisfying wet crunch. As if on autopilot, she pulls back for another kick before the giant in a cook’s hat bear hugs her from behind.

“I think I’m gonna puke,” Krystal proclaims, ducking behind the host stand to empty her guts.

“Let go, Mike,” Nadia screams. “LET. ME. GO!”

She fights like a hellcat, wriggling loose.

“Calm down, ‘Dia,” Mike says, hands up. “Just… calm down.”

Nadia looks around wildly, frazzled. She locks onto my aviators, shivers, and bolts out the door.

“Shit,” I mutter. Slip six hundred and sixty-six was quickly going to hell and The Shadow hadn’t even arrived yet.

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It takes me an hour to find her in a nameless hole-in-the-wall in a side-street alley.

“Paandaa Maaan… still wearing the shades huh,” Nadia giggles when she spots me. “Sorry you never got that beer. Here, have some.” She thrusts a bottle of White Ace towards me. It slips from her fingers and I deftly pluck it out of the air.

“Nice reflexes,” she slurs as I set it back down on the table. “Here to turn me in, big guy?”

“No,” I sigh, sitting down across from her, doing my best to avoid making direct eye-contact.

“Oh? What then? Looking to cop a feel too, Panda-Man?” she leans across the table, flashing a healthy swell of sun kissed cleavage. “Just cause I’m a Hooter girl, doesn’t mean I’m easy. I’m not like that. Well. Not anymore. But… maybe if you treat me nice…” She waggles her blonde eyebrows suggestively and grabs my hand, pupils dilating.

“I am not a nice person.”

“I can work with that, Panda-Man.” She blinks rapidly after she says it and pulls back nervously, lucidity coming back to her. “Why did I say that?” she whispers, confused. “How did I?” she looks at her hands, and I have a sense of what she’s seeing. Blood that isn’t there.

She is, quite definitively, unlike the previous versions.

That scares me.

And excites me.

Sickens me.

I pull the folded yellow note from my back pocket and place it on the table.

“We… should probably talk,” I explain.

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The bitter black coffee sobers her up. The story I weave carpet bombs her with sobriety, anxiety, and incredulous, and more than a little disgusted, disbelief.

When I finish, her eyes bore into the back of my skull, fingers folding and unfolding the note.

The laugh starts at her toes and moves skyward until it hits her in the stomach, causes her cute nose and cuter ears to wiggle. Tears spring in her eyes as the giggles send her into an uncontrollable seizure.

“I’ve heard some real doozies from horny frat boys wanting inside my panties,” Nadia laughs, “and far worse from greasy managers wanting me to suck their dick, but that… that takes dedication, Panda-Man. If you’d just asked me out to dinner, I probably would have fucked you. I like older men and you have that Tom Selleck charm about you, but this…” she flicks open the note, reads it again, folds it again, mouth cycling through a torrent of emotion. “What the fuck? Who put you up to this? Jack? I have a restrained order. I told him I’d rip his balls off if he so much as…”

I sit quietly, hands folded, and let her continue until she’s hoarse and reaching for the bottle of White Ace.

She guzzles the last third and slams it back down, out of breath.

My patience seems to piss her off and she glares daggers at me.

Ten minutes pass.

Twenty.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” she finally whispers.

I nod.

“You’re insane,” she says. “This is insane. You need help.” She moves to leave, and I grab her by the wrist. “Let. Go.”

“Or what?”

“I’ll…. I’ll….” She trails off and I like to think maybe her brain is finally preparing her for the truth.

I go for broke and pull the aviators off. “Look at me,” I say calmly.

With trepidation, she does, and immediately pales. “Shit,” she says, and promptly faints.

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Her apartment is a small but clean one-bedroom on the outskirts of the greater Kansas City metro area. Small potted plants, basil and parsley, a small cactus with red buds, line the kitchen counter.

Curious, I thumb through everything she owns, which, while not a lot, clearly has sentimental value, a concept I’m not well-versed in. I look up at a series of polaroid’s and scenic cutouts tacked to a corkboard above her bed. Bright faces smile back at me in a vivid explosion of real happiness.

I hate it.

I’m jealous of it.

I wish I knew why.

A small cutout in the bottom corner draws my eyes, gives me pause. Hands shaky, I pull it down. It’s the Fountain of Neptune in the Piazza della Signoria.

“I’ve always wanted to go.” Fireball whiskey washes over me in an intoxicating cascade. “But I guess I already have, huh?”

It slips out of my trembling hands as I turn around to look at her… at me.

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Kneeling in front of me, Nadia appraises me with clinical detachment, trying to find some piece of herself in me. Her fingers, long and delicate, comb through my hair. Trace my jaw. My nose. My ears. Thumbs pull the corners of my mouth up into a smile like a scene from a film I can’t recall.

She pulls away, exasperated, to pace the length of the small bedroom. There’s nothing to find. Nothing but the same set of polished opal eyes staring back at hers.

“Fuck you,” she rambles. “I’ve always felt drawn to certain things and I could never explain why. They just felt… right? Certain foods. Certain colors. A pull to live in the fucking Midwest despite modeling opportunities that could have sent me to Italy… All lies. It was all you. Even my name. I don’t understand. All this… because of a note in a fucking safe? Why do I have tits and a monthly bleeding gash between my legs instead of a penis? Explain, dammit. And don’t bother with the lies. Seems like I’m your bullshit detector.”

I shrug, helpless. The one truth I have, the only one I have, is the one I didn’t even know existed until this final slip. And it isn’t going to make things better. In fact, it will likely make them worse. But judging by my increasing sense of foreboding, I can either admit it or let the world burn.

“I don’t particularly like what I am, who I am,” I admit.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Before I ran into you, I wouldn’t believe me either. So, here’s a story. And forgive me, but it’s not a very original one.”

I fall back onto the bed and close my eyes to conjure up a face I thought I’d forgotten.

“There was a boy and a girl once. Madly in love. Well, the girl was at least. The boy though? He was something of a liar that cared only for himself. This girl though… she was… pure. Warm. Meant for something special. And despite what would happen if her father found out, she gave her virginity to this boy in the back of an Astro Van. This girl. She gets pregnant. Sends her father into a rage. And that man, despite his faith, sins harder and drinks harder than those he rails against. Boy promises to stand by her. Stand up to the man. Take responsibility. Do you know what that boy does instead, Nadia?”

Nadia, frozen in place, goes white.

“Yea. Of course you do.”

“So, Nadia, when you tell a monster that secretly hates itself, to save the world by fucking itself, what does that monster do? It screws, rather incompetently I should say, with time, to influence the changes it needs. A little here. A little there. Until there’s a version of itself the monster doesn’t hate, that is bright and warm. Like the girl it tossed aside like a broken toy. But at the end of the day, Nadia, the monster is still a monster, and this was a tragic mistake piled on a lifetime of them. If the world burns, it burns. At least it’ll be free of my stench.”

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Time flicks slowly by and the foreboding mounts and I wonder what the end will be. Something original? Was there even anything original left?

Mattress springs squeak and I crack an eye open as Nadia crawls up to straddle me.

“What are you doing?”

Face unreadable, she shrugs. “Oh, I don’t know, Aidan. Saving the fucking world?”

Fixing me with a look of challenge, she peels her cotton top off, baring her sun kissed tits in full. My prick, contained for far too long without any action, pulses to life beneath Nadia’s soft, satin clad ass despite my inner protests.

“And if you won’t save us,” she continues, fingers deftly attacking belt and zipper, “then just fucking lay there so I can.”

Before I can move to stop her, my pants are past my ankles and flying off in a slow, parabolic arc. Then, lush tits heaving with the sudden burst of energy coursing through her, Nadia wriggles out of the tiny orange shorts and craws back on top of me, right hand planted firmly on my chest. With the left, she grabs my prick, slots it at her opening, and drops her hips.

She hisses in pain as I spear through an incredibly tight, and more than a little dry, cunt.

“Shit, shit, shit,” she groans, tears springing at the corners of her eyes.

“Are you…”

“Shut the fuck up, asshole,” she says, clawing at my chest. “Thought you were ready to piss right off into your note’s cryptic apocalypse?” Mirrored eyes wet with pain and anger, she glares down at me.

I don’t know what the right thing to do is. Never cared enough to know. And yet, somehow, someway, this young woman who is me, but at the very same time is most assuredly not me in any meaningful or fundamental way, is tearing through the uncaring, monstrous carapace, to reveal the path I should have taken with Stacy all those years ago.

Tentatively, because it’s still insane, I pull Nadia down to me until we’ve nose to nose. Then, heart beating with life it’s never had before, I press my mouth to her strawberry lips.

She resists at first, the fucked reality of it finally clicking in her head. But, as my hand traces down her spine to the curve of her ass, her body relaxes.

A blueprint suddenly forms in my mind, and, no longer inhibited, I follow it. I roll us gently over and break the kiss to nibble at her ear, bite at a spot just above her collar bone, and pinch a hard, ruby red nipple between my fingers.

“What the hell are you doing to me?” she gasps, legs crossing tightly over the small of my back. “It’s like you…”

“Know just where do go?” I finish, pulling away to latch onto the other nipple.

“Fuck,” she moans, clawing at my back hard enough to draw blood.

The stinging pain shoots an electric shock of pleasure along my spine and I pull her into a violet kiss of battling tongues vying for dominance.

Mouth curving into a smile, she bites my lower lip and grinds her groin against mine, drawing attention to the fact that her once arid gash is now a creaming mess of wet jungle heat.

“Fuck you,” she grins, eyes smoldering with arousal.

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Delirious, intoxicated by the feel and taste of her, I start to move.

It’s a disjointed dance at first as she adjusts to my size, as we struggle to determine who leads, who follows. But when we finally settle in, it’s a chaotically charged tango.

Her eyes are wild, cheeks scarlet, hair a damp, tangled mess. “Fuck me,” she moans, hips gyrating in my lap. I pull her into another violent kiss, savoring the delicious cry of lust when I speed up. It isn’t enough though. I need more. She needs more.

Disturbingly in-sync with each other, we pull away, gasping for oxygen.

“I know what you want,” Nadia smirks knowingly, tapping her temples. “It’s what I want too, Aidan. Isn’t that funny?”

I nod, prick throbbing angrily, the desperate need to devour her returning with punishing intensity. Only this time, she feels the same pressing need.

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I spank her heart-shaped ass and she squirts a sticky glob of arousal onto the sheets.

“Fucking devour me,” she moans into the pillow as I trace my tongue through her sticky fluids up to the crinkled star of her rectum. “Fucking devour me.”

I tongue fuck her asshole with perverse glee, delighting in the pornographic expletives that spill from her lips.

“Why does this feel so damn good? Is this because of you?” she cries, wriggling her ass in the air. “Oh fuck,” she grunts when I spear my tongue inside her to rim the tight ring of muscle with gusto.

“Does it matter?” I answer, rising up to run the fat head of my cock through her slippery folds.

Nadia furiously shakes her head no and squeaks out a desperate plea for me to ruin her. I readjust my aim and sink into the constricting heat of her ass.

“Fucking ruin me, Aidan,” she grunts when I bottom out.

Sweating like a pig, I spank her heart-shaped ass, entranced by the Jell-O-like jiggle and the tightening of her sphincter that follows.

I pull back out until only my fat head is trapped inside her raging heat.

“Fuck my dirty asshole,” she croons.

I thrust brutally back inside, stealing the breath from her, and push her roughly into the mattress. Then, after spanking her ass red, I give her what we both want, and piston wildly into her delicious rectum.

“Can’t. Last. Long.” I grunt, overloaded by the heat of her dirty hole.

“Unghhg… Pussy,” she groans, voice muffled as she drools into the pillow.

I can’t hear her, so I race to the end, pumping frantically, searching for a release I sense is more than just the orgasmic sort.

“Gonna cum,” I groan, balls seizing up.

“Nooooo,” she cries, pulling her face from the pillow. “Pussy,” she repeats. “Spray my pussy with your filthy cum, dammit.”

With effort, I pull myself free from her infernal heat and pull her over.

Legs spread lewdly apart, I find her creamy pink hole below a thick triangle of blonde curls just as my cockhead splits open to paint her vulva with a splash of semen. “Shit,” I grunt, and push my jerking cock into her slippery gash.

“Fucking fuck,” she screams when I bottom out, silken pussy coiling around my prick like a boa before rippling in an uncoordinated wave of undulations. “This,” she howls, pussy wringing every last glob of boiling semen from my balls, “is the right fucking kind of wrong.”

I nod weakly and collapse into her soft, sun kissed chest.

Laughing, she cups my face and pulls me into an electric kiss that sends us both into dreamland.

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We doze in the afterglow, slipping in and out of a new, strangely connected consciousness. I feel… different. Not so much changed as dismantled down to a singular cell and rebuilt from there. My memories are all still there. I’m still me, I think. But for the first time in my life, I feel a sense of love and belonging rather than lies and emptiness. I feel what a normal person would have felt with Stacy. I feel…

“Home?” Nadia murmurs, lush tits pressed against my back.

I roll in her arms, pull her into a soft, languid kiss.

“Something like that,” I say, tongue dancing with hers.

“Me too, Panda-Man,” and she rolls top of me. “Did we do it?”

I shrug. “The note wasn’t very detailed, was it?”

She smiles, eyes burning differently now, more like fire opals than my set of boulders. “Well,” she says, crawling between my legs to tongue my cock back to life, “it couldn’t hurt to make sure.” She suckles my balls one at a time until my erection stands hard and proud. “Besides,” she pushes my knees to my chest and dips her head low to blow hot air over my asshole, “it’s your turn to be devoured, Aidan.”