11th Sun: Chapter 9: Ice Cream

I fold up the dress really well, and it fits into the new purse. The old purse also fits in there. It’s not large and baggy, but I can fit a surprising amount inside. I sling it over my shoulder, and pose again. It’s perfect with the jeans and the jacket.

Hand on the door handle. Deep breath. Step through the door. No. Strut though the door. “I’m gonna wear these out,” I tell Marcus. It’s probably the boots that are making my hips move like that. I’m pretty sure I’m not doing it on my own.

Marcus looks up, and his eyes go wide. I like that look, so I put my hand on my waist and turn my hips for him. I don’t know what I want out of this situation, and that’s more than a little bit scary. Right now I’m feeling a mixture of power and submission. I’m powerful, because I can look sexy (for him), and submissive, because I’m making myself look sexy (for him).

I don’t even know this guy.

“You look nice,” he stands and brushes his hair back. Then he gives a little start.

“You’re new,” and he points to my belly.

Where my belly button used to be.

Well I mean, where it never was on this body.

Marcus lifts up his shirt to show off a tattoo, where his navel never was. He’s a butterfly. I hadn’t made the connection, but with a body as good as his, it makes sense. “We all get one after a year, when your skin can accept the ink.”

Right, I can get tattoos. I’m gonna get some tattoos.

No, wait, “I’m only two months old.” Hip, turn, breath a little harder when he reaches out to touch my elbow.

“Out this far? You’ve never been on level-z, have you?”

I shrug, and feel my hair over my shoulders, and flush a little bit, “No.”

“We have to get you some chobbish.”

#

He asked me out! Okay. That made it simpler. I’ve never asked anyone out before. Propositioned, yes. But never the civilized date-like kind.

That’s right. Guys are supposed to ask me out now.

Be cool. Act interested but not too interested. “Chobbish sounds grood.” I start out as “great,” and end with “good.” Real cool Eleven. Real cool.

“There’s a place upstairs I like. It’s as authentic as you can get out here.”

He waits for me to come with him and, because something in my mind is broken, I reach out to take his hand. Not the fingers interlaced kind, but the going on a date kind. He’s surprised, but he holds on to me for a second. Then I let him go in rush, when my psyche catches up to what I’m doing. He pretends not to notice my faux pas.

We get in the lift, and it cycles through an airlock and up two floors. Then I step out on my first z-level.

It’s darker on z–2, sort of. I’m aware simultaneously that there is less “normal” light, and more UV light. My eyes see fine, even though I know that they shouldn’t. But they adjust quickly to the light, and then I’m only aware that it’s darker, but still able to see fine. The air smells… different… in some way.

My heart is beating faster, either because of a small decrease in oxygen, or because Marcus has stepped off the lift and offered me his hand this time. And this time I take it like a lady, all straight elbow and fingers, and stalk off the lift, looking excellent. That’s good because I’m going to pieces inside.

“It’s this way,” he says.

#

You know how you walk into a mechanic’s, and you smell oil and grease and ground rubber, and your brain thinks, that’s a nice smell. And then you think I wish I could taste that smell. And your brain is all, You should not taste that smell. That smell will not taste like it smells, and will probably kill you.

Well chobbish tastes like the mechanic’s smells, but without the probable death. It looks like a mess of grass in maple syrup, and you eat it with things that are sort of tweezers and sort of tongs.

Marcus eats with me, in a rustic little suite, dressed up to look like a chob. Which is apparently the traditional place to eat chobbish. Makes sense. He watches me while I chew, and while I try to figure out what I’m tasting.

“The taste that tastes like nothing you’ve tasted before?” He tells me what I’m tasting, “Arsenic. Enough to kill a human and a half.”

“Arsenic doesn’t have a taste.”

“It does now.”

I mull this over for a bit while I munch more grass. “It seems like it would be an acquired taste, but I already like it.”

“I’ve heard other people say the same thing.”

God he looks good. “What do you do?”

“I find things, for money. What’s your thing?”

He’s a merc. “I make sure people don’t things, for money.” That’s pretty much all we need to know about our professions. And more than most would tell you in a place like this.

“How old are you?”

“Twelve. In this body.” He stretches out in the low seat, and his toe brushes my calf. I’ve never really been on a date I wasn’t paying for. Turns out that when a hooker plays footsie because you’re paying them, and a guy you have very conflicted feelings for does it; it’s totally different. I feel a real hitch in my chest, and accidentally splash a bit of sauce onto my cleavage. I feel myself flush.

Marcus reaches out, realizes what he’s doing, and grabs a napkin instead. It’s nice to see I’m not the only person a little flummoxed. I feel like changing the energy here. Feeling manic, I hold eye contact with Marcus, while I wipe up the little bit of sauce with my fingers. Then slowly lick them off. Marcus twists his hips in his seat, and I know that twist. He’s adjusting a 50% erection in his pants.

I did that. To him.

That’s the point where I decide to suck his dick in the alleyway.

#

We leave the chob and go out onto the promenade. We don’t really have a destination, so when I tug him into a little alcove, I’m not disturbing any plans. I grab his jacket, and have to throw my weight backwards to pull him out of casual view. Then something happens that’s never happened to me before. He bends down and kisses me, hard.

No, I’ve never kissed a guy before, but that’s not what I’m talking about. He took control. I gave the signal that I wanted something, and he took control of giving it to me. Something about that makes me melt, and I start to open my mouth as I kiss him.

I have to tilt my neck up, and that’s new. But just like in junior high, my body’s response is surprisingly instinctual. I run my hands up his chest and then cross them over his neck.

He’s… harder… than a girl. I’m not sure how to describe it better than that. There’s something about his lips, and his jaw and his tongue, that’s more firm than a womans. I’d be willing to bet they have more muscle in them.

He picks me up, just a tad, and I feel the loss of control again. It just makes me kiss him harder as he presses me against the wall and palms my left breast.

The first thought that runs through my head is that I would have preferred the right one.

The second thought is holy hell.

Of course if feels like another persons hand on your genitals, that hasn’t changed much. Except it’s totally changed everything. His fingers are harder than mine. The muscles is more densely packed. And when he sits my whole breast in the palm of my hand and squeezes just a little bit, I gasp in shock at the feeling. It’s like being thirteen again, and feeling someone touch your body intimately for the first time. The first time oxytocin hits your brain and changes everything in your life.

I just wrapped my leg around his. That short circuits my brain. I don’t know what the end game there was.

Then I blank for just a moment, and wonder why I can’t feel my penis when he tucks his thigh up under my pelvis. I pull away for a moment, suddenly very confused, and put my hands on his chest. “I… I’ve never done this before.”

“Do you want to stop?” He asks, and he grinds his leg into my groin.

I feel the soft pressure all over my clit, and manage to squeak, “No.” I can feel my pussy gushing out a mess down there and it feels ready for whatever is coming.

What is coming, Eleven. What did you plan to do?

And my fingers reach out and feel his cock through his pants. It’s scrunched up to side, in a way I know must be painful, and my vision twists a little bit as I stick my hand into his pants. Never done that from this side. I pop it in in up the the wrist with a little thup and I hold a cock for the first time in three months.

Again, it’s the same and different. I feel a reflection of my old feelings, but they’re ephemeral. It’s the same kind of dick feel I’ve felt for 46 years. Thin skin, over a spongy tube, slipping around as I pull it up and make him more comfortable. And harder. I get my wrist in between penis and pelvis, and stroke him at an angle I’ve never been able to reach before.

I want to feel what he’s doing to me. He’s kissing the side of my neck, and I thrill when he gets his hand under my shirt. He pinches a nipple with nothing between my skin and his, and I get tunnel vision. It’s wonderful, I know, but right now it all needs to go away so I can focus on him. On his pleasure.

So I let my legs go weak, which isn’t that hard; and slide my pussy down his leg. I rest on my heels for a second, and hit the snap to open his fly, and tug out his cock.

It turns out that, from this angle, all penises are intimidatingly large. From my own experiments with my fingers, and that pain, this thing would split me in two. I have no idea how I’m going to fit it into my mouth, but damn am I going to try.

I tease him a bit and jack his cock as a pregame. His head is so engorged it’s barely covered. While he puts his hands against the wall I rub the skin of his shaft, twisting my wrist just a little bit as I go up and down. Then I swallow my anticipation, and run my tongue from his base to his frenum.

His head is covered in sticky pre-cum, he’s been lubing up a storm. I take a deep breath, and practice what I’ve always loved. I put my lips against the tip of his foreskin, and push it off his head with lips and fingertips. The glans feels a little bit like smooth mushroom skin. There’s tension in the texture, and firmness, and it feels smooth. I can feel the pull on his frenum, and bring my head back to run my tongue over it. I get to the tip to find a big glob of leaking pre-ejaculate, and scoop my tongue to taste it.

I don’t know what I expected it to taste like. Like pussy, I guess. And it’s salty, sure, but more sticky and musky.

That reminds me. I open up my pants, and dial a fingertip around my clit while my left hand keeps up the business of guiding his rod into my mouth.

There’s a musk I can smell in the back of my throat as I push him in as far as comfortable (I don’t feel like showing off). There’s no other way to put it, guys simply taste more manly.

I’m distantly aware that Markus has one hand pressed into the wall of the alley. His other hand is over the back of my neck. I don’t want to find that distracting, so I find it annoying instead, and move it.

I go all in, and cup his testicles a little bit, the same way he palmed my breast. I hear his breathing get a little faster, and he flexes his cock in my mouth. That’s uncomfortable, and very flattering, so I toy with my tongue until he does it again.

Then I’m through screwing around. I suck my cheeks in against the sides of his tool, giving it a nice cool pouch, and start fucking him with my mouth. His skin slips around my lips as I’ve lubed him up, but I know I’m pulling it up and down. Knowing how good that’s making him feel, makes me feel great. I slip a finger inside myself. I’m pretending it’s a much smaller version of what I’ve got in my throat, and I finger bang myself in time to the blowjob.

I don’t like to gloat, but he comes in about thirty seconds, and with little jerks and spurts, semen fills my mouth.

#

I have to set the record straight here. People talk about how cum tastes, and they say “sweet” and “sticky” and “salty” but they don’t say out loud, what I now know.

I’ve eaten my boogers before. I don’t feel gross admitting that, because I was four or five, and there’s nothing more naively disgusting than a toddler. I remember the taste.

That’s what semen tastes like. A big glob of snot.

And, oh my god, I love it. It’s not like it was before, or ever. It gets me hotter than hot. It’s dirty and slutty, and tasting it is… womanly. As he ejaculates in my mouth, and fills my face with his cum, my fingers finish their job. I clutch his rod and rub the last of his cum out, while I lose my balance for a second, and feel my spine seize up with my own orgasm.

Swallow. That feels wonderfully decadent. I realize that there’s a little on my face, swipe, and lick it off my finger. I make sure to look Marcus in the eye while I do this. I’ve buried myself in the part.

I wish I could keep going, but the truth is that, that orgasm has left me exhausted. It was more intense than even the first one, and the come down is leaving me weak.

I stand and close my pants by myself, while Marcus tucks his tool away. Still feeling weak, I lean against the wall and make a “whew” noise.

Then Marcus pulls me close, kisses me, and makes a confession, “I have to leave in an hour. Do you want to get ice cream?”

#

Marcus seems to think I want to cuddle. I don’t recall cuddling with anyone who sucked my dick before.

We sit in an ice cream stand, where he plunked down beside me, and is cradling me in the crook of his arm. I feel small, but my body has taken over, and leaned itself into his hard chest.

Marcus bought the ice cream. He bought the chobbish too. I’m not concerned about that. He got my lips on his cock, so I think we’re even. The modern etiquette is to alternate paying for dates, but…

… but we’re going to split, and I don’t expect to ever see him again. Sure, we’ll exchange numbers, maybe social media details. He might send me a couple of texts before we each lose interest in replying. We both knew what this was.

In the meantime we have ice cream together. And, yes, cuddle.

I don’t know why the ice cream place is so cold. No, I know that, ice cream places are always cold. Because they have ice cream in them. But I don’t know why the cold is bothering me so much. My skin is goose bumping, and I’m really cognizant of the cold. My nipples have tightened up, and are very visible under the shirt. It’s annoying, but I’m sure it’s sexy.

Markus is warm, and I brush aside his jacket and squirm under it a little bit. I expect to run into his shoulder holster and a though occurs, “You’re left handed?” The Glock is on his right side.

Marcus laughs, “Look at what hand you’re eating with.”

My ice cream cone is in my left hand.

“So?”

“Were you right handed?”

“Yeah.” Were?

He puts his phone in front of me, and hands me a pen. “Sign your name with your right hand.”

I pick up the pen, and have a familier sense of feckless frustration just holding it. When I put it to the screen it’s worse. I struggle to sign my name as fast as I can, so I can give up.

“Now do it with your left hand.”

The pen sits in my hand like it was made for it. My signature is smooth and fluid, and just like normal. I don’t know what to do, so I just look at him.

“You were on your right side in the tank. Your spinal column made your dominant side the one that it could move more freely.” He holds my left hand in his for a moment, “Welcome to the club, Eleven.”

That’s the first time he’s said my name. Why does that give me a little thrill?

Then Marcus’s watch chirps and he checks it, “I gotta go.” He takes his arm away and gets up.

My ice cream cone is just the tip left, and I crunch it down as I stand. Marcus faces me, and wipes a bit of ice cream off my cheek. This carries me back to the taste of his semen in my mouth, and I stand on my tiptoes to kiss him impulsively. I can feel how damp my panties have gotten, and that makes me feel guilty and wonderful.

He kisses me back, and his lips are hard, and he tastes of chocolate chip. Then we go to the elevator. I get off at a random level, hug him, and let my fingers trail out of his hand as I walk away. I don’t look back, and I think I hear him sigh as he presses the button for the hangers.



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