Chapter 15 A Gap in the Calendar #2
She reciprocated, when she’d caught her breath, with studied, researched, annotated skill, her small clever hands wrapping around my cock and doing things she’d plainly thought about in advance, considered, possibly diagrammed, her grip firm and her wrist twisting at the head, then her mouth following her hands, taking the head of me between her lips and sinking down slow, her dark eyes watching my face the way she watched a readout, adjusting her pace and her suction by the response, and I let her, because letting Yuki run an experiment on me was letting her love me in the only language she fully trusted, and I told her so, and her ears went scarlet around my cock and her hands faltered and she pulled off and said, “Don’t, I’ll lose my place,” and went back to it with fierce concentration.
Then I sat back against the wall and drew her astride me, reverse, facing the small mirror on her dresser, on a hunch I’d had since Bianca laughed for a full minute at a chart.
She reached between her thighs and guided the head of my cock to her entrance and eased down onto it, slow, her tight little cunt stretching around me by degrees until she’d taken all of it and sat seated and full in my lap with a shaking breath.
She saw herself in the mirror. She froze for a moment, caught by her own reflection before she was ready for it, and then she couldn’t look away.
She saw what she looked like coming undone, the one subject the auditor had always kept off the record, that no one had ever been allowed to study: herself, hair down and skin flushed pink from her ears to her small high breasts, eyes wide, lips parted, my hands spanning her narrow waist and lifting her and setting her back down onto me.
She made a sound at the sight of it, low and shocked, that told me the hunch was right, that watching herself lose control was the audit she most feared and most wanted.
I held her narrow hips and lifted her and moved her on my cock slow and made her watch, my length sliding wet and glistening out of her on every rise and disappearing back into her on every fall, the smallness of her against me filling the mirror, the contrast of it, my dark work-rough hands almost meeting around her waist, her fair body rising and falling on me, the size difference its own held note.
“You can see it,” I said, against her ear, in her own key. “Every reading. Live. No instrument between you and the data. That’s you, Yuki. That’s what it looks like.”
“I, I can see,” she breathed, staring at herself, grinding down onto my cock, the count long gone, her hand drifting up to her own flushed throat in the glass as if to confirm it was real.
“Adam. I can see it. I look…” She didn’t have the word.
She’d run clean out of words the same way she ran out of numbers, every measurement and every name for it gone off the page at once, and what was left was a few soft broken syllables that counted nothing, and she came watching herself come, her cunt clenching tight and rhythmic around me, shaking, small and radiant in the mirror, her hands gripping my forearms where they crossed her, her dark eyes fixed on her own ruin like it was the most important result she’d ever recorded.
I turned her to face me for the last of it, because I wanted her eyes and not the mirror’s, and slid back into her wet and tight, and she locked her slender legs high around me, so small around me, my cock buried deep in her, and the data-voice was in ruins now, no measurements left, just my name, over and over, Adam, Adam, the only word she had.
And when I was close she gave me the protocol’s last word, repurposed, clinical imperative turned to pure want, the order she gave everyone for everyone else turned at last toward herself.
“Now,” she said, fierce and shaking, her small hands fisting tight in my hair. “Inside. Now.” A breath. “Now.”
I finished deep inside her, driving in as far as I could go and holding there as my cock jerked and emptied into her, her small body clenching tight around me to keep every drop, her thighs clamped high at my ribs, her face against my throat, and for a long moment the woman who timed and measured everyone’s everything made no sound at all, just held on, full of me, while I held on, the two cups of tea going cold on the table beside the card with both our handwriting on it.
She didn’t lie against me after. She sat up, composed even wrecked, and reached for the card on the table, the one with both our handwriting on it, Patient: Tanaka, Y.
Complaint: waiting, and held it in the lamplight, her thumb moving slow over her own printed name.
She didn’t explain it. She let the card do that, the way she’d let the blank cell on the board do it, her own name sitting on a chart in a building where she scheduled everyone’s beginnings and had never once scheduled her own.
“Beginnings,” she said at last, dry-eyed, not to me, to the card, in the even voice that made it land harder than tears. “Every window. Every test. Every result that makes a person cry in this building. I schedule all of it.” Her thumb stopped on her own printed name. “Never my own.”
I pointed, through the wall, in the direction of the board down the corridor.
“You did,” I said. “It’s on that one too. Justification blank. I saw it.”
She set the card down and trued it to the table edge with a single fingertip, exact.
And then the held line of her shoulders finally went soft, the brace she carried everywhere letting go all at once, and she made a small neat sound, and there were a few tears after all, exact and silent, gone almost before they’d come, wiped away with the precision she did everything.
“Don’t chart it,” she said.
“I won’t.”
“I mean it. That, the, the crying. It is not going in any record.” She capped the pen with a small click. “Some things are off the chart.”
“Some things are off the chart,” I agreed.
Only then did she lie down, small and warm, fitting herself along my side, her hair loose across us both, and she slept like that, her hand finding my wrist at the very end and settling two fingers over the pulse, charting me in her sleep.