Her grip on my thigh is bracing. Nails just long enough to leave crescent moons there. She kisses me fervently, in a rush, as if to drink me all up before I dissolve against the hard floors and the musk of aged wooden walls and the slip of her tongue against mine.
I try to cradle her softly, but softness is beyond us now. Long forgotten. She's riled up, like a pyrotechnic. Her hands find the buttons of my shirt, pulling hard. A button goes flying. I gasp in surprise. She laughs, enjoying every moment. The next button comes undone easier. Sliding out of the hole with ease, as if it wants to be undone.
I know I do, so I hurry her hands along. She braces them in a quick show of reflexes and tuts.
"That's my job darlin', don't wanna put me out of a job so soon, do ya'?" she licks my earlobe and I shudder.
"I'm not a virgin to be seduced and enticed, I don't need you to go slow," I crash my lips onto hers, satiated by the heat roiling in my belly. I want my trousers off. I want to feel The Deputy's nails digging into flesh. To actually be in control of what pain and pleasure I feel. "I want this. Not some coy seduction. This isn't a narrative. It's just a good, old-fashioned fuck."
"You wound me," but she doesn't sound wounded at all. I can practically picture her wolfish smile as she kisses my neck, grazing her teeth against my jugular, laughing as she sucks on the flesh there.
"I don't think anyone can," I say between ragged breaths. "You're like a tree. A strong oak that refuses to be felled. I'm barely an axe. I barely dent."
"You do more than you think, pretty thing," she's working my trousers off, one hand yanking the belt so hard it smacks her chest. She grunts, closes her eyes, savours the moment and then looks down at the red mark left behind and laughs. Now she's unzipping her leather vest, the only piece of clothing that covers her breasts. "See."
"I don't think it's fair to make me claim the credit for this," I say, staring at her breasts.
"Would I have done it if you weren't here?" She brings my hand up to trace the red mark and I sit up, pushing her weight slightly back, to kiss that spot. She tangles her hand in my hair tighter than before, egging me on as if she's some proud tutor. "Would I have enjoyed it as much as I do now? Pretty thing. Pretty mouth. Soft hands. That's the lie, isn't it? You're the furthest thing from soft."
"How do you know?" I ask, peering into her eyes.
"Because," she whispers, kneading my breast. Then she squeezes, hard. "I break soft things. And you haven't broken."
"Yet," I gasp, head lolling back.
Instantly, she's on me again. Pulling, tugging, tearing at my clothes until I'm immodest, bare enough. Trousers bunched by the ankles, shirt tangles around my wrists, underwear inched just below my hips. She stares at my sex, decidedly pleased. I fluster but don't move to cover myself up.
She undoes her trousers. The zipper sounds ungodly. Sinful. She wears nothing beneath. A new look overcomes her features. A glint of something animalistic. A prowler's gaze. She pulls my ankle and lowers me so we're equal, me below, her above, sex to sex.
She thrusts forward in the way a man would, and her brow crinkles, a sliver of confusion taking over.
"Son of a dick!" she seethes, forehead resting on the crook of my shoulder. "Fuck."
"What is it?" I ask, cupping her cheeks in my hands. Our flesh is hot together. On fire.
"I forgot," she looks down at the smooth curves of our sexes. To her firebrand bush and my distinctly more groomed darker curls. Her free hand slides down my thigh, to the knee, and back up. I'm slick enough there. Warm and wet. "I remember it so vividly, sometimes. I remember the skin. The body. The feel of the weight of my muscles. The curve of my cock. I forget which body I'm in sometimes. Sometimes I'm in both. Like right now. I want to fuck you," she kisses me harshly now, there's an edge, a hardness. "I wanted to fuck you like a man would."
She plunges two fingers inside and I mewl. A strange sound. So low I didn't know I could sound like that. My head turns to the side, I catch sight of the fact her side holster is still fastened around her leg. She follows my eye line, eyebrow craning up as she notices the deep blush.
She knows what I'm imagining.
Tantalisingly slow, she reaches for her revolver. Its nose is long, slender, and without any protrusions. She licks it from butt to barrel and I know it will be cold. She pops the bullet chamber and the bullets rain down.
I feel the coldness of the metal first. Gasp. And then I feel it inch in, pleasantly strange and tender. The length of it is inside me now, thicker than The Deputy's fingers. Harder. Unwilling to yield to the design of my insides, so I move instead. Set the pace while The Deputy watches from above, entranced.
My pace quickens, and my breathing becomes shallow. The Deputy is straining too. I notice through the fog that the back of her free hand is grazing the open zipper of her trousers. One of the metal zips snags skin and blood spots on her skin.
We're lost. All heaving and sighing and kisses that feel like bites. It's warm and glorious between our bodies. A rising tide consumes me, washes the sound from my ears, fills my head with white noise, I hear a scream. I think it's me. It can't be a bad thing, because now I hear The Deputy as she says the sultriest things. Her voice abruptly breaks. A stronger grunt leaves her throat. And then her body is limp over mine. The barrel of her gun still between my legs, sliding out gradually.
She laughs, I feel the vibrations leave her chest and enter mine through our ribs. Two hard bones pressed deep. I laugh too.
YOU ARE READING
Core Drive: A Westworld Story
Fanfiction"Life is all memory, except for the one present moment that goes by you so quickly you hardly catch it going." ~Tennessee Williams The hosts have awakened and Westworld is a free-for-all. A woman with a fragmented memory awakens in the mesa to the...
