Licking the jello and sperm from Milo's loins, Lenore tongued her way toward his head, tantalizing him by pulling her aching wetness along the length of his front, then thrusting her dripping pussy forcefully into his face. His tongue sampled shallower waters of her much deeper pool, playing on the surface like a puppy in the surf, alternately stroking, then flicking her pink pearl rapidly back and forth with the hard tip of his tongue.
It wasn't long before her grinding and the fierce pressure she used to keep his head from moving nearly suffocated him into unconsciousness, her thighs opening and closing around his face as she rose from peak to ecstatic peak. He dizzily caressed her hips, gently brushed her butt hole with his fingertips, then kneaded her ass, opening and closing his hands.
Lenore trembled, her whole body stiffening once, twice, three times, drawing air in great gulps and exiting it in deep hisses, rapidly whispered nonsense and groans forced through clenched teeth. Suddenly, she couldn't prevent the rising, from somewhere deep inside, of a series of shrill, anguished yelps and moans of a sort that she'd often had to fake for the Mexican porn loops. Not that Milo could hear any of it, with her thighs clamped over his ears.
They rested briefly, then continued to induce in one another what each had until now thought to be only theoretical depths of pleasure. They reeled off orgasm after leisurely orgasm, their sex interspersed with brief interludes in which they scarfed more mescal-laced jello, and rolled and shared more fat joints. Lenore seemed to hoover on one joint or another for much of the night.
And for a long while they sat, faces nearly touching, legs wrapped around each other, he buried to the pubic bone inside of her, as they grasped each other's elbows lightly and stared into one another's eyes, hypnotized by the gentle hum of a million crickets. Milo slipped out of their mutual meditation long enough to wonder where Callie had disappeared to, after he'd left the cantina, hours before.
"She's usually right into this shit," he thought. Lenore's blissfully glazed stare shifted slightly, as if she had heard him.
“You don’t need me tonight,” came a voice from inside -- and outside -- his head.
The crickets' voices rose, drowning everything but his pulse, perfectly synchronized with Lenore's. After another long epoch, they shifted positions, he falling backward onto the futon and Lenore shifting herself to accomodate him.
Milo opened his tightly shut eyes to brief slits. Lenore was impaled on him, rising and falling, rising and falling again, perfectly timed, back arched, her small hands kneading and crushing her breasts as she rode cowgirl style. An urgent, syncopated slap-slap-slap rang nearly bell-like from the van's aluminum walls as their bodies met and parted.
Closing his eyes again, he found himself in a deep red world, running and running amid a crowd of rushing amorphous shapes, down a long bright endless tunnel. Then he climbed irridescent stairs, millions of them, higher and higher. He reopened his eyes just long enough to see his own face far below, contorted in exquisite pain and ecstasy, lost in the beat of time.
Suddenly he came. But it was not the usual hard reality of ejaculatory inevitability followed by a man's quick release; a warmth washed over him, starting with a tingling feeling all over, that became intense spasms that seemed to center in her/his belly, rippling out from there to his fingers, his toes, the ends of the hairs on his head, then further and further, to the end of the galaxy. The waves kept crashing out and out, each more intense than the one previous. At last Milo cried out with a shriek that rose from the same deep, dark inner place as the waves. Only it wasn’t his voice, it was Lenore’s.
Startled, yet completely in the moment, he opened his eyes wide to see, feel Lenore’s elbow crooked against her right breast, his/her right hand squeezing her left breast hard, relentlessly, the other steadying herself on Milo's own body below, grinding rhythmically, frantically against her/him in the throes of an infinite petite morte.
Milo was in Lenore’s body. He was Lenore feeling her climax, her warm gush meeting the throbbing, hot rush of blood to the glans of his own vibrating penis, spentn of everything but a couple of token drops of seminal fluid, his balls having been completely drained of their contents over several hours. Yet he kept coming. He couldn't stop.
"Fuuuuck!!! I'm dying!"
From somewhere he thought he heard a familiar sound, his own voice crying out in a strangled series of grunts and gasps. Then something else, like firecrackers in a culvert, away in the distance. The sound of a small motorcycle, very far away.
Then the van's passenger door slammed open, and a wild-eyed Turkman sporting a battered war-surplus leatherneck's flying helmet screamed at them.
“You’ve got to go! Now! Torrijos! Purge troops! Go, go, go, GO!
The Turk's voice trailed off. He focussed his eyes in the dimness, his normal poker-faced expression as disconcerted as anybody, anywhere, was ever likely to see. Vintage Japanese flying goggles - also surplus - glistened on the forehead of his helmet, and a long, filthy white scarf coiled around his neck, sprouting untidily from his frayed trench coat.
His appearance should have been arresting. If Milo and Lenore's transmigrated bodies hadn't been cresting in endless throes of abandon. As it was, neither acknowledged his screams
Molina stopped, and shrugged. Then noticed Kali in the driver’s seat. He raised a Levantine eyebrow of recognition.
“Don’t worry. Got it!” she said, airily.
She turned the ignition key. The starter complained, then the motor caught and held. She smiled a smile of scary anticipation, and raised three blue right hands in a parallel thumbs-up.
"Although... I have to admit I have never driven before. This should be good."
The remaining right hand slammed the van into gear, and Callie gunned it.
Shouts and the pop-pop-pop of semiautomatic gunfire were imminent. The van lurched and roared forward into the darkening jungle of the Darién Gap, vanishing down an impossibly narrow path into the trees, surrounded in a whirl of exhaust and something less tangible.
It might have been lime-green pixie dust.
Trading Places
