A Physical Reverie

He rose out from the depths of her right breast, and the orb of flesh, like a shivering droplet, reformed and was once again dotted with an eager nipple.

John's hands still reached down and wrapped around himself, wrapped around her, inside her own body, the smooth skin of her waist rippling as he reached in and squeezed himself with her vagina. He crushed her sex like a vice, gently massaging the whole structure of her clitoris with his pinkies. He looked up at her face, with her gritted teeth in a hissing grin, and her voice vibrated inside his bones. "You're surprisingly good at this, John." It was the first time she said his name as an equal. It shocked him, and he wore his thoughts naked enough for even her to tell. The shifting hues of blue and green that surrounded them were injected with a snaking trail of orange, the color of her humor. They were laying upon a floor, John was sure; he felt it on his knees and feet, even as tucked and tapped into the flesh-made-essence of Wentworth. "You're not satisfied?"

"You haven't come yet," he whispered in frustration. His answer ended in a grunt, and again he filled her with his seed. Again she offered him that token shiver, that delighted groan... but never her peak.

"Such an intriguing boy... a body that can meld and bend..." She sat up and, propping herself up on her left, carressed his chest until her right sank into his flesh in turn. He continued to thrust, even as he felt her tuck her fingers between his lung and heart. "But inviolable in all vital functions. Your organs are like stones, and your veins wrap around my hand..." She ran her digits through his major arteries like fingers intertwining with hers, and for a moment she lost herself in thought.

John saw it again: a scar on her belly. A C-section? It was ugly and pitted, and seemed too small to get a baby out. A war wound, perhaps, right into her stomach. For a moment, he imagined a dagger, and the image seemed too strong to be one of his guesses. He wanted to know her body more.

"I must confess: I'm getting close."

Her slurred declaration nearly ruined the portrait of her.

The charcoal started to hurt his fingers, but he continued the long, curvaceous line despite the ache. He enjoyed the sensation: the soft pains and tiny soreness of the porous surface in his fingers. It was a raw chunk, half the size of a fist, but the authenticity of it made him all the more eager to use it. Most of its edges were blunted, but he still had two remaining for the finer details. He preferred its odor to the incense, which burned his nose and made his eyes tear up as they smoked on a Kashmir rug improvised into a table cover. He blinked away tears as they fell on his naked thigh, and he remained seated before the canvas, marveling at his work in clean slices and diffused shadings of black.

He never worked with charcoal before. Rarer still was getting his teacher to pose nude for the shot.

Wentworth deepened her recline. Her nicely tanned skin was deathly pale underneath the blue light of three moons, or at least that’s what John believed, or knew, was shining light down on her, there in the gold-plated balcony, in an alleyway formed by this floating hotel and a passing military complex-airship. Soldiers, dressed in suits of iron and leering without eyes in their shadowed sockets, hollered and whistled as loud as they could manage from their guard posts, balconies and opened hatchways; they were naught but the buzzing of flies to either occupant of the suite. In three days, the two vessels would finish passing one another; one to float to the skies just annihilated, the other to a nation that was naught but a memory.

Wentworth let her knees stretch a bit farther, revealing more of her well-fucked sex. The scar was gone, but it had appeared too often; it, like other clues, occasionally gave John the unflattering hints of the real Wentworth. He hungered for them; his rendition of her was almost photogenic, save that those tiny flaws like the scar tissue, the muscled limbs, and the wrinkles at the edges of her.

John was surely not here until just a minute ago, but even these transitions were becoming rote. “Where are we now?”

“The same place we’ve been, John,” Wentworth sighed, obviously drunk, “though I cannot fathom why you’ve called this the Hoonberry Falls Hotel.”

John eyed the same table next to him, and the same rug hiding it: by the incense, by the pile of charcoal bits, and flanked by the empty bottle of wine, was his own glass, untouched. He looked about, and the furniture came to life as he had written it: metal with a surface like clouds in a hurry gilding furniture carved from pink stone, no visible doors or exits save the balcony, and uncovered candles daring onlookers to move anything flammable in range of their sconces. "Hoonberry was the proprietor,” John explained, satisfied that he had locked, in his mind, the setting of an erotic story he wrote last year. "Who jumped from his own hotel after writing three wills to ensure his legacy. It was part of a simple storyline I made: the ultra-rich would pay for a room they could not escape, except by **** by jumping, and they'd eat their last meal and drink their last wine and exchange their secrets, their awful, love-rupturing or love-solidifying hearts, before diving off the edge in sexual embrace or terrible solitude."

"To die together, in instant impact? How romantic."

John shook his head, and Wentworth reached below the chair and picked her wine glass up anew. She gave an exaggerated pout, bizarre on the strict visage of his professor, as she realized it was empty. "There is no impact. There's no known land remaining; they each go down into the clouds, into an infinite fall, hoping to reach a new Eden, a world without men aside from themselves... a myth beneath the clouds."

"Did you ever write a couple that found anything, then?"

"Never. They were wrong; they were always wrong." John put the charcoal back down, and rose from his chair, swooning as he did.

"You've been drawing me for days, lover," Wentworth whispered, rising to move to the rail. She turned her back on him, and he started towards her on a slow, hesitant march. "It seems no matter what fantasy you impress upon my mind, I can never see more than what you want to show... as expected. But such fancies: we were merfolk cursed to drown. Before that, a dragon and a knight who found true love. Then a virgin lad and his dominatrix duchess." John pushed against her; their bodies were solid here, in this dream, in this impossible place he wrote. He loved the smell of her. It never changed, from world to world; it had filled his nostrils, as her flesh had now many dozens of times in his haphazard fondlings. "How many worlds have you been holding in yourself, John?"

"As many as it takes to get you off, Victoria." He lowered himself, guided his meat into her entrance, and leapt forward to impale her, shoving her hard against the rail and gaining leverage with a hand on either side of her. She aided him, leaning forward with his motion until they were both send flipping over the edge and tumbling, in union, towards the clouds below. The upside-down pyramid design of the Hoonberry Falls Hotel loomed overhead; two other couples poured from their own balconies, with the ship's structure ensuring none could ever get a hand hold on a lower level. Newman and Wentworth both balked at the copycats. Spoilers of John and Victoria's dream; what if Eden was real, and now they had to share the first real estate claim in a thousand years?! But the Fall ensured that John didn't much care; he spun in freefall with his lover, trapped in her folds as she was in his embrace. The blue clouds of an obliterated world rushed up to meet them.

They screamed together, then laughed, and the giddy terror of hopelessness filled them both. The clouds muffled their voices, and soon they couldn't so much as see one another. Teacher and student, witch and mage, woman and man: they embraced as tightly as their flesh would allow, crying and swearing oaths of love as they careened towards whatever waited below. Like clouds, the lines between them blurred until the difference was lost: terror gave way to rapture, and they embraced lips as both shuddered while so joined. Wentworth's words were lost, but John felt her body shudder, clench, and declare her pleasure as her throat vibrated against his. Here, then, had he finally communicated to her what he sought to have reciprocated. Here, then, she obliged.

He did it. It took such a terrible finale, as the clouds parted and the true, horrible depths of their demise became clear, but he did it.

A red-eyed machine, feminine-formed but utterly false, looked up at John. A memory? He felt it for less than an instant: the inner-sanctum of Wentworth's mind, and the heated edge of that image that cut through him.

Wentworth rose up from John, her face slowly unmerging from his and restoring itself to a neutral expression, save for its flushed quality. John looked back up at her, with tears still flowing from his eyes. He couldn't remember why.

"Well done, Mr. Newman."

John rubbed his eyes, and blinked about as he reclined against the blackboard. Blackboard...?

Achievement unlocked! "... and then shit got weird."!
You've had a sexual encounter that was actually completely unique! You have no idea how hard that is.
+1,000XP
+2 LIB

"Please, this is hardly the time-!" A woman's voice, but not of any of the Wentworths he had just claimed. John opened his eyes and blinked rapidly to find-

A barrier of Wentworth's classroom, with all the furniture smashed to pieces, and the three occupants: Moira and Jane, as John knew them, stark naked and giggling as they rolled in the blue, translucent goop that coated them, and Kim, the mysteriously powerful student, standing over them and shouting. One of the new lesbians tried to reach for her ankle, but Kim's reflexes were too quick; she continued to pace about them until she realized John was now in the room... and the gash of an inner-barrier was gone.

"You." Kim's voice did nothing to hide her anger.

John looked about, expecting Wentworth; she was nowhere to be found. "Me?"

"That barrier, the mayhem at school... this was your doing, then?"

John shook his head reflexively. "N-No, the barrier was Miss Wentworth's!" Kim seemed to weigh his words. Moira and Rave, apparently just (re-)discovering that the other had breasts, began to toy incessantly with them, pinching and giggling and suckling innocently as they exchanged moans.

"Your tits are so fucking huge, Moi-Moi!"

"Hee-hee, my mother's were even bigger...!"

After a moment of staring, John snapped out of it and pointed at the two. "A-And I had nothing to do with this!" Man, I kind of wish I did though...

Kim nodded slowly. "Then... what about the rest of the students?"

John did his best to remain stone-faced, though it only made him look guiltier. So they found out about the fairy dust? I mean, I only poured half of it in there; should've been a quick wave and that's it, right? How bad could +1 libido- Shut up John, and say something! "I... don't know what you're talking about?"

John pulled up his quest log as she gave him a plainly doubting, potentially violent glare, and checked his progress-

Quest objectives fulfilled!
Orgasms: 691
Individuals: 112
Total Levels: 100+
Multiple skills/knowledges available!
Turn in the quest now?
Y/N