thefancyturt

[thefancyturt]

P-Idle

YES SIR I'M A --"

My body shakes with the thunderous final note of I-dle's smash hit "Super Lady" as it rings out across the stadium and blends with the screams of tens of thousands of devoted fans. I am in position under the stage as one of five hydraulic platforms sinks slowly towards me. Tonight I am Jeon So-yeon's stage minder. I am waiting, flashlight in hand, to usher to wardrobe during the too-brief break between sets.

Soyeon is crouched low on the lift as it descends, and I have a clear and unavoidable view of her white safety shorts jutting out profanely from underneath the skirt of her stage costume. Her taut, petite backside is a pearl nestled in an oyster of silk and tulle. A lifetime of social conditioning screams at me to look away to protect her modesty, but I can't. I am responsible for her safety. I am responsible for her body. Even before I shine my light up, I can see that the shorts are drenched straight through, as usual. I think how thirsty she must be and unconsciously pat my hip to confirm that I have her water ready.

The lift concludes its descent and before she can turn around I have one hand held out to guide her. The other holds the flashlight ready to illuminate our path. Soyeon, always full of energy, always moving, normally is in motion before the lift even settles, but tonight she is still. She is looking at me. I am looking at her.

"There's no time," she says between heavy breaths, her featureless chest heaving.

"It's the same schedule, we have time if we --" I begin mechanically, but she cuts me off.

"No, there's no time," she says as she advances towards me. She is a diamond glittering in the dark with sequins and sweat. I feel like she is towering over me, even though I am hunched over in the cramped crawlspace and she doesn't even have to duck. She hasn't broken eye contact.

She advances in, past my outstretched hand, and reaches up to place both of her hands on my shoulders. I've guided her a hundred times but we've never touched like this. I want to be strong for her but I think I am already shaking. She pulls me down, down to her level and further, until I stumble down to my knees on the floor.

"I …" she briefly falters -- so rare for her. "There's no time. I have to do this now, and we, we can't make a mess here." There is the usual authority in her voice but also something softer. Pity? Perhaps even … an apology?

I'm in a trance as she reaches her petite hands under the skirt and slowly pulls down the safety shorts. The roar of the crowd is a hypnotic drone, loud but distant. There are twenty thousand souls here but I am alone with Soyeon. She hasn't broken eye contact. She gingerly steps out of the safety shorts and throws them to the ground with a wet slap, perversely audible even over the crowd. I wonder for the first time if it is just sweat.

She weaves her delicate fingers through the hair at the back of my head and begins to pull me gently but firmly towards her nexus. It is as if I am watching myself from a distance. I do not resist. I am responsible for her safety. I am responsible for her body. She lifts the front of her skirt.

"Close … close your eyes." Another rare hesitation. "Now, open …"

I don't need to be told what to do. My higher consciousness has shot down. My persona is empty, but my animal brain knows what is coming. My lips are wide and receptive, but not searching. Ready to receive, but never to probe. With my eyes closed, my other senses heighten to manic sensitivity. I can smell her long before I taste her. I wait, utterly adrift, wreathed in her musk. I do not have to wait long.

She releases almost the moment my lips touch her body. My mouth presses into her pitch-black bush and I form the best seal that I can. My tongue begins to search unbidden, against my every subordinate impulse. I hear myself moan and can only hope she doesn't hear it above the crowd. I have a brief moment -- only an instant -- to savor her salty sex before the torrent begins.

I could never have imagined that her slight body could contain such a deluge. It's all I can do to stay afloat as a river of filthy piss pours directly down my throat. Her garden scratches my face as she writes against my mouth, alternately tightening and relaxing against my lips, pumping her torso to wring it of every drop of pungent discharge. I am watching from above, floating, totally disassociated. The only remaining thoughts are to swallow, breathe, and try desperately to etch every sensation into memory. I spend an eternity on my knees, there in the dark. I receive.

As the river subsides to a dribble, I surprise myself by daring to open my eyes. My eyes are searching, questioning, a dog looking up at its master in surprise when the attention stops. She has never broken eye contact. Her eyes are half-lidded with relief, but also something else. Is it … need?

I don't have time to wonder. I return to my body when she pushes me back roughly. She smooths her skirt and starts to look away, but stops. Shame flickers across her face for an instant, but she captures it, controls it. She raises her chin and locks her gaze on me as she flattens her skirt. Already on my knees, some ancient instinct compels me to shrink even further, to flatten myself against the earth. I want to look away.

"Get up," she says calmly, before I can lower myself to the ground. "We don't have much time."

She reaches out her hand.