Issue 148, Fall 1998
It wasn’t difficult.
“That’s nice. That’s nice.”
Anyone could have done it—absolutely anyone.
“Just the way I like you. Great.”
He’d been applying the usual friction, first and second fingertips."Mm. Now the right,” the circular rub and flicker insisting against cloth until both nipples caught at his attention, perked and ached. The way they would.
“Good.” His lips slackened, were licked moist, while his interest hid in the dumb black of his glasses. “Very good.”
Laurie paused next, smiling, satisfied, happy my needs were symmetrically prominent. “Nice.”
But anybody with hands could have done as much. Not even hands, necessarily: hand would have been enough; or a halfway decent prosthetic: even a properly placed domestic pet. Laurie wasn’t working miracles—he was not involved with raising up the dead—only a little prickle or two of extremely erectile flesh. Brush or fluster them, breathe at them, kiss and they’ll button up tight, they’ll crest. Within their particular limits, th…