The Mutant has found her shirts and is pulling them on. In the backwash of adrenaline, he’s almost grateful for the distraction of another glimpse of her tits. It’s all so perfectly Mutantly weird—go into the Mill with her and risk death. But you do get to see her actual bare tits. When she sees he’s sneaking a peek, she laughs at him. He finds her coat, throws it at her.
“Ooooh,” she teases. “Somebody’s cross.”
Outside, while she closes the clasp on the padlock, Sam stumbles away into some brambles.
“Where you going?”
“Take a leak.”
He’s got to piss so bad he can’t get it started, he’s numb, and then it hurts when it does. It takes forever, while he pisses like he was getting rid of a couple day’s backup.
“It’s so frigging cold,” he mutters to himself, “frigging cold,” but the mantra doesn’t make him less so. It’ll be a miracle if he doesn’t wind up with a cold in his bladder.
Crashing out of the brush, he finds her huddled by the door, humming again. He wonders if she’s so stoned, she’d sit there all night waiting for him and never notice she had frozen to death. He hustles her toward the truck.
She jerks away from him and skips ahead, calling back, “Still mad at me, ‘god?”
He’s too cold and ripped at her to answer.
Dancing away toward the Playground instead of the truck, she grabs the ropes of the swing and jumps up onto its seat.
“Fuck it, Deanie!” he shouts at her, “it’s too frigging cold for this shit! I’ve had enough of your crap! You want a ride home, get in the truck right now or I’m leaving without you and you can get your own ass home!”
She stands on the seat, her arms looped around the ropes, swaying and twisting dreamily. Hands shoved into his Levis, he stamps his feet on the gravel to get his blood going. She drops out of the swing onto her feet and shucks her coat.
“Shit!” He breaks into a lope.
She pulls her double layer of T-shirts over her head as if they were one piece. Sam grabs them from midair, snatches up her coat and wraps one arm around her. She is too consumed with the giggles to resist. When they reach the truck and he has to let go of her to unlock it, he shoves the clothing into her arms.
“Put your goddamn shirt on before you catch pneumonia,” he pleads.
She lets go of the clothes and they fall to her feet. Sam fumbles the coat from the ground and flings it into the truck. He tries to yank the two shirts, still together one over the other, over her head. She goes ragdoll slack so he is forced to hold her up with one arm while he struggles to get the doubled neck of the shirts to pass over her headrag. Then she jerks away from him. He tightens his grip on her and she struggles and he can’t do it, his hands are full of writhing half-naked woman and it feels too much like something bad. The hell with the shirts. Picking her up in a fireman’s carry, he heaves her into the cab.
She slides right back out and he catches her halfway and tries to shove her back and she’s sliding down the front of him, bare tits in his face and then his hands. Her legs wrap around his waist and he can feel the hard ledge of her pubic bone, the softness of her sex against his navel. She grabs his face and wipes her mouth over his frantically until he jerks his head back. The coldness of her skin and the chains across her cheek startle him, raising goosebumps all over him. The shiver knots his scrotum, becomes a jolt to the root of his cock. He tears her off him and bundles her back into the cab. Scooping the T-shirts from the ground again, he tosses them into the cab and scrambles, breathless and trembling, behind the wheel.
He slams his door and shoves the key into the ignition. In a cold sweat of sexual excitement that’s all mixed up with being furious at her, he refuses to look at her. Still he’s intensely aware of her, crouching against the opposite door with her hands between her knees, bare breasts shivering with spasms of giggles. Suddenly she jerks down on the door handle. He lunges after her, grabbing her by the hips as she twists toward the opening door. She manages to flip the shirts through the crack before he yanks the door closed and punches the lock button.
He’s on top of her and her left hand is on his cock. He reaches to shove it away but when his hand covers hers, he can’t, he finds himself pressing both their hands against him and he moves instinctively against the pressure. Now it is Sam who seeks her willing mouth. She tastes of marijuana smoke and cocoa and jelly donut underneath and her tongue is a slippery urgent muscle. Her chains are part of her skin, a cold silky scar, a mysterious new mechanical organ, rolling over his cheek and mouth. The metallic taste makes him moan, is absorbed by his brain and rushes through his nervous system like a drug to turn his penis iron. The chains at her waist and crotch are hard against his leg, his stomach, his penis. The hand that isn’t on the ridge of his cock presses at the small of his back and strokes down over his ass, urging him against her. He lifts himself into a crouch over her, abandoning her mouth for her breasts. Grinding against his leg, she finds his hand and tugs it to her pubis. He nuzzles her armpits, smelling her, tasting her. As his tongue explores the tuft in her armpit, his fingers rub the crotch chain into the warm soft notch between her legs. He
