Hmmm.
This was going to be - well. Something. Something different. Something a little like, maybe, HEAT. Where the sensuality, if there was any, came from what didn't happen, as opposed to what did. And I knew it happened in a gym, and I knew it involved a treadmill, and I was pondering titles. I was thinking like, maybe, 500 MILES (with apologies to The Proclaimers). And I was thinking, like, maybe, 'ON THE ROAD AGAIN' (with apologies to Willie Nelson), again because of the treadmill.
Er - it sort of changed (blush).
It changed because I was also thinking there was someone else I hadn't written about recently. And she crept in (with apologies to Mud, Kats can do that (blush)) and took over.
And when she'd taken over, I knew what the title was. Because a certain Mr Clarke once wrote three Laws - and one of them can be looked at in a mirror :-).
So there. That's how it happened. And here. Here it is. I've no idea if it's erotic - that's for the reader. But I hope it's kind of fun, too - and nobody dies :-). So here's DRIHT LAW. Over to y'all...
Oh - and if you'd like to know a bit more about that Kat who crept in, feel free to wander over to The KAT-ALOGUE. It's just a sub-list of some of my GWA scribbles - so I don't think we're breaking any rules :-).
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DRIHT LAW
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I love tech. God, I love tech. And that’s not all. Thing is – it turns out, I think I might be loving the wrong things.
See, the tech thing? That’s something I don’t talk about. Like, I’m blonde. I’m blonde, I don’t wear glasses, and I work out. A lot. You get the picture?
Right. Guys like that picture. Guys really like that picture. And blondes, blondes who don’t wear glasses, blondes who work out a lot? They get laid. A lot. Blondes who talk tech onfirst dates? Or even tenth? Not so much.
I like getting laid. Hell, I love getting laid.
So I don’t talk about the tech thing. Like I don’t talk about the two PHDs, one in crypto and one in electronics. Like I don’t talk about how the gear in this building is what absolute-fucking-bleeding-edge wants to be when it grows up. Like I don’t talk about how I get to live here for free, because the tech here is kind of all me, because I invented it.
That doesn’t get you laid. Being smart, I mean. Not that kind of smart, anyway. So I’m not. I’m a blonde – and I work out. A lot. Because I know how stuff works, and guys are just another thing to know.
Yeah. Right. I am so fucking smart.
So there I am, and there’s no bar I want to be in tonight, because I got my itch scratched yesterday. Six times – hell, yeah. And it ain’t yesterday, it’s today, and I’m not itchy, but these hips and this ass don’t stay what they are without I work on them. And, like I said, I love working out. And you know what? Most people, they don’t. Like, they want their building to have all the stuff, the gym, the pool – but do they use them? Hell, no. So I pretty much get the gym to myself.
Well, mostly I do.
So I walk in, and the gym that should be empty, it isn’t. Because you’re there. Nobody else, just you. And you’re running on the rolling road, and I built the tech in this place, so it isn’t just any old treadmill. You’ve got the 3D sim running, and you’re in the hills some place. And I should be pissed, and I should be, like, what the fuck, this is my place, and I should be turning round and getting the fuck out, because I don’t like having anyone else around when I’m working out, because they don’t know their AES from their elbow, or their SHA from their fucking shiatsu, and want to talk about who that guy on that show they can’t remember is, like, fucking this week. And I don’t, because if it ain’t me, why should I give a fuck?
But I’m not. I mean, I’m not turning round, and I’m not leaving, because I’m way too busy thinking ‘shit, that is a great ass.’ Which is kind of crazy. Because I’m straight like an Arizona highway. But, hell yeah. I’m watching your ass, and it is cute.
So I watch you run a while, and fuck, you’re smooth. I mean, most people don’t know how to run. But you? Hell, you’re breathing, because otherwise you’d be dead, but I can’t hear it. And you don’t run, you glide. And your legs are working like metronomes, and your ass is switching like someone took a pen and drew the smoothest letter eight ever.
And I cannot take my eyes off it. Like, your ass. Your 'I’m straight, so I don’t give a shit' girl-ass.
But I figure I can’t stand there forever, looking at your ass, because otherwise I’m going to look real stupid when you stop the belt and you call Building security. So, like, fuck it. I take the towel from round my neck, and I get on a belt. And, like, it’s no big thing that it’s the belt next to yours, right? Because, like, I’m straight. I mean, the ass thing, it was just, like, well, whatever it was it’s nothing to do with which belt I’m on. And I kick the belt into life, and, like, just for the hell of it, I set the 3D to the same as yours, because, like, otherwise it would just look dumb, and that’s the only reason, right? And I start running.
I start running, and that’s when the guy comes through the door.
Well, sort of. Because he opens the door, and he’s, like, waving this piece of paper with something that looks like the messiest circuit diagram ever, and he’s looking at you. And I see your hand, and your fingers are moving – and that’s when the mag locks on the door somehow slam on, and the door puts a real crimp in his nose, and he’s outside looking in. And he’s waving the paper with the circuit on it, and he’s shouting, but we can’t hear a thing. And you look at me, and you shrug, and you say “Fuck him. Or rather, I won’t. He had it upside down.” And you laugh. You laugh, and it’s like ice in a tall glass in the middle of the desert. You laugh, and, like, my fucking nipples get hard! Which, of course, is pure coincidence, because, like I said, I’m straight like… well, whatever some really, really straight thing is. It’s nothing to do with you. It’s just, like, a breeze or something. And I know there’s no breeze in here, because the room’s air is kept in perfect stability, but fuck it. It’s a breeze. So, like, whatever.
So I’m, like, on the belt, and, like, running. And you know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking, hacker. Because there’s no way that door shut on its own, and I saw your fingers moving. So I’m thinking, like, a local RF field, and maybe a metal skim on your fingers so you can talk to whatever code you’ve got running, and I’m thinking how I’m going to have your ass for cracking the security I built. Or I should be. Because I’m not. Because I get about as far as thinking about having your ass – and I kind of forget about finishing the sentence. Because I’m thinking about the ways I could have your ass, and that’s crazy, because I’m, like, fucking strai… and I tell myself to stop fucking thinking because I got as far as ‘I’m, like, fucking’ and it somehow turned into ‘I’d like to be fucking’ – and who I'd like to be fucking - and, like, fuck that because I’m like, straight. And for some reason I catch you out of the corner of my eye, and you’re looking, like straight ahead, and you are grinning! And there’s no way you could know what’s in my head, so I, like, have no idea what you’re grinning about, even if it is the cutest fucking groin… I mean, like, grin, I’ve ever… Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.
So I run. I fucking run, and I don’t look at your groi… er, your grin, and I don’t think about your ass, and I am not thinking the curve of your tits is, like, a perfect fourth order polynomial curve and how I’d like to, well, like nothing because I am not thinking about… and I feel it. Like, it. Because, like, my fucking clit is trying to put my nipples into silver medal position in the shit-I’m-hard Olympics. And I am fucking dripping. And I know it’s only because, like, I’m running, and, like, simple muscle dynamics and, like, the coefficient of friction between my cunt lips is making them slide against my clit, and, like, it’s nothing to do with you because, like, I’m fucking straight and… and why the fuck are you fucking grinning? And I see your fingers wave again, and I think we should really talk about the whole RF thing, and the metal film thing, because I know there’s no way you could crack my security, and so there’s no way my belt and yours should be speeding up, and there’s no way I can run this fast, and I guess I really must be running this fast even if I can't because, like, that’s why I’m gasping, and that’s why it feels so hot, and that’s why the, like, friction thing and the, like, muscle dynamic thing are, like, doing their things, and, like, my clit has never been so fucking hard and I’ve never been so fucking wet and I’ve never felt like there’s so much electricity running through every nerve in my body, and what I can feel happening is not fucking happening, and even if it is, it’s nothing to do with fucking you, and I’m not ever going to be fucking you, because I'm, like, straight and I’m not even thinking about fucking you, and maybe we should talk about how I’m never going to fuck you over, like, fucking dinner or, like, some fucking wine in a fucking bar, and whatthefuckishappeningtomeandpleasefuckletitneverfuckingstop and…
And I wake up. Or, at least, I open my eyes. And I’m flat on my back, and you’re looking down at me. And you are still fucking grinning. And you run your finger between my legs, over my leotard, and you run it over your lips. And your tongue comes out, and you lick your finger.
And your eyebrow goes up, just one, and you grin even wider, and you say “Yum. We should come here more often.”
And you stand up, and I can see the dark, wet patch between your legs, and I can smell you and I never want to smell anything but you forever and…
And you’re gone.
And you’re gone, and I mean, like, gone. You don’t leave the gym, at least not through the door – you’re just not there. You’re not there, and there’s this new smell. Not the one I was smelling, but, like, burnt matches. And I’m so fucking smart, I never believed the stories my old grandmother used to tell, the ones from the old days. Because I knew even then I was smart, and the old stories were just that – just stories. And I remember Arthur C, and I remember the Laws. But I think maybe he got one of them backwards. Because I know you didn’t have any, like, metal film on your fingers, and I know there wasn’t, like, any RF field. And I know you’re not some fucking hacker, and I know I’ll never see you again, and I don’t even know your name, and I’m fucking crying because…
And that’s when my phone rings. The phone I didn’t even have, because I don’t bring it to the gym.
And the phone I didn’t have with me is in my hand, and I’m looking at the screen, and it’s there. The number. 666-fuckmenow. And the name. And I realise it was my gran who was right all along, and even if I know I love tech, and I know I love guys – maybe it's been me who was wrong. And I figure, Hell. Maybe, just maybe, I’ve been loving the wrong things. So I press the button - and I answer.