Memories
faris
the wasteland
NSFW
faris
the wasteland
NSFW
The safest place to sleep in the desert at night was on the cliffs. Rock formations worn into unnatural looking shapes, unsteady red spires towering against pink sunsets.
A real bitch to get up there, though.
Good at running, good at climbing, that's what kept Faris alive. That, and his eyes, good at looking though they weren't much to look at. From his perch atop precariously balanced stone, he could see for miles in every direction. A spot of color that indicated water, shadows moving that meant dead game. Echoes in the sand of what might once have been a road, a rectangular shape barely visible.
He liked those best. Usually oil in those. Of course, oil only had value if he found someone to trade it with.
He considered what he might spend it on as he peeled the skin off a piece of cactus, popped a slice in his mouth to chew the moisture out of it. A new knife might be nice. He was shit at sharpening knives, just seemed to end up scraping them crooked. Guns just meant buying ammo and making noise, that was out of the question.
There was always women.
He narrowed his eyes at that faint shape in the distance as he considered the possibility. Whores meant having to buy rubbers, that was always a pain. In the bigger settlements the cheaper whores were the ones all painted, doused in perfume. Lips the color of blood leaving smears like regret on his skin, making him feel like he was drowning in cheap moonshine and flowers. If he wanted to stick his dick in a rose he wouldn't be paying for a woman.
Smaller places, those were better. Women who only did whoring on the side, didn't have the time or the inclination to dress up for it. When was the last time he'd been with a woman, anyway?
He laid back as he tried to remember, unbuckled his belt in an aimless sort of a way. Hadn't even been a whore, last time; a Hopi woman, hair down to her knees and tattoos on her arms. He didn't have the patience to sweep anyone off their feet, didn't have the time to bother trying to get laid the old-fashioned way. But she'd liked him, for whatever reason, and he hadn't complained.
Faris didn't have much in the way of an imagination. But memories weren't much, few and far between as he wrapped his hand around his cock and remembered lips hot and slick. Not creative enough to invent a woman from whole cloth, to imagine her riding him here and now. But it was the little things that he remembered, that he thought of, disassociated from any one body.
The gasping sound one had made when he'd first thrust inside her, the smell of coarse lye soap in another's hair. Fine blonde strands against his chest, a thick black braid in his palm, a tiny cry echoing in a closet. Coarse hair between his thighs, swollen pink lips still salty pressed against his own. Someone - he didn't know who, he didn't know when - she'd giggled, a tiny airy little thing so girlish and genuine that he'd stored it away in his memory for safekeeping. Fingers curling in the hair of his chest, fingernails clawing at his skin. Breasts too large for his hands, small and perky against his chest, soft skin hardening against his tongue.
There had been a doctor, years ago, who'd set his arm when it had broken too badly to fix himself. He wouldn't have dreamed of asking to fuck her, not when a good doctor was rarer than oil, not when she'd looked tired down to her bones. He'd thought about it anyway, and he thought that she knew that he had, bending her over the exam table and pounding into her. Something about the way she'd looked at him could give him goosebumps even now. He wondered how many men she'd saved who'd had the same ungracious thoughts. She'd smelled like lemons.
Skirts hiked up to waists, denim pulled down to knees, bare legs wrapped around him with not a stitch of clothing to be seen. Slender calves, soft thighs, a redhead whose mouth had formed a perfect circle as her eyes rolled backward. A brunette who'd been bored, but for a moment her breath had caught, a stifled sound.
The impossible softness of a woman, any woman, every woman, when he slid his fingers inside them, so soft it was like they'd break. That was the one thing that was never quite right, when it was just him and his hand. Calloused palms were a far cry from soft flesh, hot and wanting.
(He knew a guy who said he'd cut a hole in a cactus to fuck it, once. He didn't think he'd ever get that desperate, but he double-checked now before trying to eat them.)
Women on top of him, beneath him, beside him; bent over, splayed out, kneeling, sprawling. The smell of a woman who'd been out in the sun, who'd been sleeping, who'd been baking. Those gasps again, like he was forcing the air out of their lungs when he thrust into them, shallow breaths hot against his ear. Trying so hard to be quiet but she can't help breathing, the quiet only makes the sound of him plunging in and out seem louder, the wet sound of skin against skin.
There'd been a whore once who made noises like howling, and he'd fucked her too quickly to see if he could make her sound like a coyote. She'd kicked him out when he'd laughed, but he thought it was probably worth it.
Pale skin turning red with heat, dark skin with sweat shining like stars, spines arching and breasts bouncing. Calling his name, whispering it, and he liked the whispering better, liked it ragged and breathless, surprised more than pleased because they didn't plan to say it. Faris, almost offended, as if he'd stolen something. Muscles going taut against him, all the softness going tight around him-
With swift jerks he came, white splattered against dark skin, jaw clenching with a faint grunt.
He'd forgotten how good it felt. He'd forgotten how much it made him want the real thing. Remembering might not have been better.
A real bitch to get up there, though.
Good at running, good at climbing, that's what kept Faris alive. That, and his eyes, good at looking though they weren't much to look at. From his perch atop precariously balanced stone, he could see for miles in every direction. A spot of color that indicated water, shadows moving that meant dead game. Echoes in the sand of what might once have been a road, a rectangular shape barely visible.
He liked those best. Usually oil in those. Of course, oil only had value if he found someone to trade it with.
He considered what he might spend it on as he peeled the skin off a piece of cactus, popped a slice in his mouth to chew the moisture out of it. A new knife might be nice. He was shit at sharpening knives, just seemed to end up scraping them crooked. Guns just meant buying ammo and making noise, that was out of the question.
There was always women.
He narrowed his eyes at that faint shape in the distance as he considered the possibility. Whores meant having to buy rubbers, that was always a pain. In the bigger settlements the cheaper whores were the ones all painted, doused in perfume. Lips the color of blood leaving smears like regret on his skin, making him feel like he was drowning in cheap moonshine and flowers. If he wanted to stick his dick in a rose he wouldn't be paying for a woman.
Smaller places, those were better. Women who only did whoring on the side, didn't have the time or the inclination to dress up for it. When was the last time he'd been with a woman, anyway?
He laid back as he tried to remember, unbuckled his belt in an aimless sort of a way. Hadn't even been a whore, last time; a Hopi woman, hair down to her knees and tattoos on her arms. He didn't have the patience to sweep anyone off their feet, didn't have the time to bother trying to get laid the old-fashioned way. But she'd liked him, for whatever reason, and he hadn't complained.
Faris didn't have much in the way of an imagination. But memories weren't much, few and far between as he wrapped his hand around his cock and remembered lips hot and slick. Not creative enough to invent a woman from whole cloth, to imagine her riding him here and now. But it was the little things that he remembered, that he thought of, disassociated from any one body.
The gasping sound one had made when he'd first thrust inside her, the smell of coarse lye soap in another's hair. Fine blonde strands against his chest, a thick black braid in his palm, a tiny cry echoing in a closet. Coarse hair between his thighs, swollen pink lips still salty pressed against his own. Someone - he didn't know who, he didn't know when - she'd giggled, a tiny airy little thing so girlish and genuine that he'd stored it away in his memory for safekeeping. Fingers curling in the hair of his chest, fingernails clawing at his skin. Breasts too large for his hands, small and perky against his chest, soft skin hardening against his tongue.
There had been a doctor, years ago, who'd set his arm when it had broken too badly to fix himself. He wouldn't have dreamed of asking to fuck her, not when a good doctor was rarer than oil, not when she'd looked tired down to her bones. He'd thought about it anyway, and he thought that she knew that he had, bending her over the exam table and pounding into her. Something about the way she'd looked at him could give him goosebumps even now. He wondered how many men she'd saved who'd had the same ungracious thoughts. She'd smelled like lemons.
Skirts hiked up to waists, denim pulled down to knees, bare legs wrapped around him with not a stitch of clothing to be seen. Slender calves, soft thighs, a redhead whose mouth had formed a perfect circle as her eyes rolled backward. A brunette who'd been bored, but for a moment her breath had caught, a stifled sound.
The impossible softness of a woman, any woman, every woman, when he slid his fingers inside them, so soft it was like they'd break. That was the one thing that was never quite right, when it was just him and his hand. Calloused palms were a far cry from soft flesh, hot and wanting.
(He knew a guy who said he'd cut a hole in a cactus to fuck it, once. He didn't think he'd ever get that desperate, but he double-checked now before trying to eat them.)
Women on top of him, beneath him, beside him; bent over, splayed out, kneeling, sprawling. The smell of a woman who'd been out in the sun, who'd been sleeping, who'd been baking. Those gasps again, like he was forcing the air out of their lungs when he thrust into them, shallow breaths hot against his ear. Trying so hard to be quiet but she can't help breathing, the quiet only makes the sound of him plunging in and out seem louder, the wet sound of skin against skin.
There'd been a whore once who made noises like howling, and he'd fucked her too quickly to see if he could make her sound like a coyote. She'd kicked him out when he'd laughed, but he thought it was probably worth it.
Pale skin turning red with heat, dark skin with sweat shining like stars, spines arching and breasts bouncing. Calling his name, whispering it, and he liked the whispering better, liked it ragged and breathless, surprised more than pleased because they didn't plan to say it. Faris, almost offended, as if he'd stolen something. Muscles going taut against him, all the softness going tight around him-
With swift jerks he came, white splattered against dark skin, jaw clenching with a faint grunt.
He'd forgotten how good it felt. He'd forgotten how much it made him want the real thing. Remembering might not have been better.
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