A Change in the Air

"So this is what human women get to play with, is it?" She grinned up at him impishly. "You wouldn't deny me a closer peek, would you? Now how do these Earthish clothes work?"

Her hands fumbled with the button until it popped loose. Then the zip was drawn down slowly, and the fabric pulled to either side. He could only sit rigidly, disbelieving but never for a moment wanting her to stop, as first one finger, then two, slid under the elastic of his briefs, combing through his fuzz of hair, and then the whole hand, sliding down, over his cock, his balls, exploring, making him gasp, finally coming to a firm and comfortable many-jointed grip around his cock.

"Ahem," coughed a voice from the door.

They both whipped their heads around to see K'ar-Eek standing just inside the doorway, in sydian form but once again strapped into the spider's web of black straps, cables and devices that constituted his visage generator. He was leaning nonchalantly against the wall, eyes scintillating in a way that Bartleby would have recognised as amusement had he not been so distracted. Sekla still had her hand around his cock.

"You two having fun? Or were you just getting in some practice ahead of me?"

Sekla stared at Bartleby for a long moment, then at K'ar-Eek, then back at Bartleby. He felt his stomach try to implode, and tried to say something, but nothing came out.

"Bartleby," she stated carefully, staring with expressionless grey eyes. He didn't breathe. How would she react? Would she be angry? Upset? Would she... just maybe... might she shoo K'ar-Eek away and keep going?

Her eyes exploded into glittering Sydian laughter. "Bartleby! Bartleby!" He didn't think he'd ever seen her laugh so hard; her whole body shook with it. "Bartleby the far!"

He nodded, still too numb to speak.

"Well then." She gave his cock a friendly squeeze before pulling her hand free. In one smooth motion she'd moved over to stand beside K'ar-Eek, picking up the discarded caramel shortbread on the way, and had her arm locked with his. "Thanks Bartleby, it's been really... interesting." She gestured to him and then to his penis. "You two enjoy yourselves." And they were gone.

He sat motionless until they were out of earshot of the door, and then swore loudly, a long and sustained far expletive, every syllable dripping with vehemence. Then, the worst of his emotion vented, he fastened his trousers, locked the door against the world, sat down at his desk and buried his head in his hands. He fervently wished he'd been honest with her. He wished the whole night had never happened. He wished the air would change so he could leave them all at last. And most of all, he wished Sekla would come back.

She didn't come back. The air didn't change. History didn't unwind. Bartleby slowly regained control over his turbulent emotions. It didn't matter. Tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that, the air would change, and he could leave all this behind. He'd be setting off on his long long journey, and if he didn't want to, he didn't have to come back here, or even think about it ever again. He'd be with Her again.

He needed to change. Leaping up out of the chair he stood in the centre of the little room, gauging the space around him. And closed his eyes. And dropped his visage.

As little as he enjoyed watching other people change, he hated changing himself even more. There was a wrenching sensation like being flipped ninety degrees in a direction that couldn't possibly exist, and suddenly everything was the same yet different. He was different. Where before had been Bartleby the man, there was now a new Bartleby, fundamentally different from the old, and yet just as familiar, just as natural, just as much a part of his identity.

The world changed when he did. The room, already cramped with its sparse and minimal furniture, shrunk even further and became claustrophobic, forcing him to hunch slightly inwards. The shadows became darker and impenetrable, but the light seethed with a rich and previously unimaginable spectrum of colours as he looked about with new eyes. The air suddenly danced with smells: the musty cloud of the room, the unmistakable reeks left by its recent human and sydian occupants, and through the window the hundred discordant scents of the outside world. The cacophony of faint sounds about him was amplified, and joined by a bass throb lower than anything he could hear before.

Bartleby very rarely went about in his far form in the Institute. It wasn't just that he had difficulty fitting through most doors. It was mostly that he was the only far here, and as a human he felt slightly less conspicuous, slightly less alien. But sometimes, when he was feeling restless or lonely, he'd let himself out and block out the world and think about the great migration, about the gathering place, and most of all about Her.

With his more sensitive far hearing, he noticed the murmur of voices from the next room: one human, one sydian. The words were indistinct but he could hear them murmuring softly, sometimes laughing. And between the words, just on the edge of hearing, he could make out other sounds: the rustle of fabric, the soft hiss of fur sliding over flesh, the wet whisper of lips sliding over lips. As time passed the voices stopped and it was just the other sounds, becoming louder, faster, more urgent. When the voices eventually returned there were no words to them; just two sydian voices - the human voice had disappeared - expressing pure, primal emotion in short, sharp gasps, rhythmically, increasing in speed and volume. Bartleby, feeling like a voyeur but unable to shut the sound out, listened longingly as they reached a final, wailing climax. As the noises faded back into quietude, he tried to cast his mind away and think of Her. But try as he did he couldn't shake the memory of Sekla's delicate fingers brushing against his, or of her lips dancing against his own.

* * *

In the morning, Bartleby remembered a conversation he'd had with Sekla a few months before. Coming from a human and far background, two races which as a general rule held up monogamy as an ideal, he'd had difficulty appreciating the sydian viewpoint.

"You do agree that we are recently being friends?" she'd asked, staring out with him across the white snow-quilted landscape. He'd nodded. It was the first clear day after the snow and they were both on the viewing platform, wrapped up thickly against the cold.

"Imagine it that when that happened, I said to you that I tell you to have no other friends only me, and that if I found you out that you had any friends not me, our friendship would be the end." Her English was more than a little rough, but considering that she'd only been learning for a month, it was remarkably good.

"Seems a bit unreasonable," he'd said, mulling slightly despondently that he really didn't have any other friends.

"Right. Imagine now I am your lover. Is it seem now any more reasonable?"

"Yes, it does."

She'd frowned. "I don't understand you no more than you understand me."

Bartleby pulled himself back to the present. He'd been drifting aimlessly all morning. His work was finished, and it seemed too late to start anything new, but still there was no change in the air. Sekla was still high in his thoughts; he'd seen her only once that day, passing briefly on the stairs, and she'd given him a casual wave and smile just like she always had. He hadn't known whether to be relieved or disappointed.

But he'd had time to think. Gradually, cautiously at first and then more definitely, he'd resolved on a course of action.

The smoky air of the kitchen was saturated with a choking mix of pungent odours. Bartleby tended to hold his breath if he was just coming in to grab something quick, but this time there was no avoiding breathing in the unappetising cocktail of smells. The room was divided into regions based on general diet: one corner was devoted to meat, hung with remnants of animals long past being identifiable. A worse smell came from the corner scattered with diverse alien fish and other less certain things from a dozen different seas. But most offensive to the nose was a long row of cylindrical vats; fermenting, refining, putrefying and other mysterious processes, occasionally belching out noxious vapour.

Seeing through the haze the profile of a sydian preparing a meal, he hurried past industrious cooks to join him in the least abhorrent part of the room, that piled with fruit and vegetables and grains. "Um... excuse me?" he said hesitantly.

The sydian turned its head without stopping its chopping of something hard and round and red that Bartleby couldn't put a name to. "Bartles!"

"Oh, hello K'ar-Eek, I didn't recognise you without your visage generator."

"Fair enough, fair enough." A moment's silence. "Kind of ironic, though, considering..."

"Please could we not have that conversation? I need some sydian food."

"Ah! Well, here I am making a big pot of teg-greshkla; me and some of the local boys are off on a bit of an expedition, and we're in need of the provisions."

"Would you mind if I took just a little bit?"

He pushed over a bowl of what looked like blue potatoes and what looked very much like a potato peeler. "Only if you give me a hand."

It took the best part of an hour. They talked a little about small things, K'ar-Eek mercifully avoiding the topic of Sekla. Finally Bartleby stood with a hot bowl in his hands of something brown and lumpy that smelled a little of soap.

"Thanks K'ar-Eek. Have a good trip."

"No trouble, Bartles. Good luck with K'er-Sekla."

He went by his room on the way, studied himself in the little mirror, straightened his collar, ran a comb through his hair. Looking at his reflection he took deep breaths, trying and failing to calm his nerves.

The teg-greshkla was still warm when he reached the door to Sekla's little room near the top of the Institute, his heart pounding. He was sorely tempted to turn around and hide in his room until the air changed, but he found himself knocking anyway.

Sekla opened the door, wearing a loose white dress tied about one shoulder and the waist, ending just below the knees. Bartleby thrust the bowl towards her before he had time to think.

"Here. I... um... brought you some food."

She took the bowl and shot him a questioning look. "My, you're keen. Wasn't last night enough for you then?"

"I..."

"That's alright, it wasn't enough for me either." She flashed a smile. "Just checking... K'ar-Eek?"

"Nope. Bartleby."

"I know, I'd have thrown it in your face if you'd said yes."

"Ah."

"You'd better come in then."

The architects who designed the Institute hadn't put a great deal of imagination into the rooms. Sekla's room was identical to Bartleby's old one in size, shape and furnishings, and like it was formed half under the angle of a great sloping glass window. But comparing the two, it was at first hard to see the similarity. Whereas everything he owned fit into one small suitcase, and most of it lived in that suitcase when it wasn't in use, her room overflowed with everything that was Sekla. Heaps of books jostled for space with unruly piles of clothes. Sketchbooks, battered photography equipment, an arc welder and several items he believed to be sport-related were just a few amongst the dozens of abandoned or occasional hobbies evidenced in the chaos. Every scrap of surface was littered with an eclectic selection of ornaments, and with knick-knacks and cheap souvenirs from everywhere she'd ever visited. Every hint of wall was obscured under a layer of posters, paintings, sketches, photographs and scrawled notes. Bartleby found it horrifying, and at the same time, beautiful.

"Sorry for the mess," she said, clearing a space to sit on the edge of the bed, untouched teg-greshkla still in hand, and motioning for him to sit beside her.

Bartleby stayed standing. "I'm... really sorry, K'er-Sekla, for letting you think I was K'ar-Eek last night. I just... couldn't bare you to stop."

"Call me Sekla. And I think I can forgive you, if you'll forgive me."

"Forgive you? What for?"

"For pretending I thought you were K'ar-Eek last night."

She stared up into his eyes, hers grey and unreadable. He stared back.

"You... but... why?"

"Because, Bartleby, you have such an impenetrably exclusive attitude to love! And I know you have a mate out there somewhere. I was afraid you might be angry with me if I asked you outright. I needed to gauge the way you felt."

"Oh, Sekla, I'd never have been angry with you. I'd just never really thought about it before. Now I... I can hardly think about anything else."

"When I left you cold and went off with K'ar-Eek..."

"It was only as much as I deserved for misleading you, I understand."

"I was going to say that it was extremely funny."

He thought about it. "In retrospect, maybe a little. Alright, I forgive you."

"Well then." She looked down at the bowl of thick brown liquid, raised it to her lips and drank, mouthful after mouthful, until it was empty. "Shall we pick up where we left off?"

Bartleby sat down next to her and rested a hand on her knee. It had been shaking ever since he left the kitchen but now it was steady. "We threw ourselves into it awfully fast last night. We've got all the time we want. We could take things slowly."

"Fuck that," she replied, and pulled him to her to kiss him.

At first he simply let himself be kissed, letting her soft skilful lips flow unresistingly over his, her fur tickling him, letting her hands glide over his back and shoulders, relishing the taste and smell of her, feeling the last of his nervousness wash away. Then he kissed back, meeting every gentle movement of her mouth with an even gentler one of his own. His hand moved to the back of her neck, fingers tracing the graceful curve of her spine, pulling her closer.

The room seemed to fade away, leaving nothing in the universe except their two bodies entwined, no sound except their urgent breaths, no smell but her strange and exotic scent, no feeling except the fire where they touched. With every second the passion in him burned brighter. Gentle wasn't enough any more. He kissed her hungrily, arms tight around her back, his lips sliding ravenously across hers, trying to feed a hot and dark appetite at the heart of him which only grew with every kiss. He swelled for her. As their mouths finally drew apart, and the world about them rushed back into existence, they found themselves standing, clasped in each other's arms, squeezed tightly together, her groin pressed against his through two sets of clothing.

She moved her hips slowly from side to side, making Bartleby groan. Her eyes lit a deeper shade of green as she whispered to him. "And I thought you were a good kisser yesterday."

"Yesterday I was pretending to be K'ar-Eek."

She laughed. "K'ar-Eek's an excellent kisser too, actually. But he doesn't have anything to compete with this." She reached down a hand to clasp the bulge in his trousers. "Speaking of which, I think we were up to about this bit when he barged in?"

Just before he could pull her in for another kiss, she ducked down for an eye-level view of his privates, leaving him with nothing within easy reach but the tapered tip of her tail. He took what he could get, and as she released his button he drew the tip to his mouth and kissed it softly, feeling it twitch in response. By the time she'd drawn down the zip and let his trousers fall untidily to the floor, he was massaging it between his fingers, feeling from its trembling reply that he was doing good.

Slowly he began inching his fingers down her tail away from the tip, stroking and squeezing, just as she worked her flexible fingers under the elastic of his briefs and eased them down, all the way to join his trousers round his ankles, letting him stand free and erect. As her hands moved to cup his testes with a feather touch, and then her long fingers stroked lightly forwards to brush the underside of his shaft, he didn't let the sensation distract him from his dotage on her tail, tracking gradually downwards towards her, the tail twitching and coiling to show her pleasure.

He'd reached about half-way down when she stood up to kiss him again, softly but intimately, and still his fingers continued their stroking journey, slipping with determination across the furred, muscular flesh, until at last they stopped when they found themselves gripping the thick base of her tail where it disappeared into the folds of her dress.

"Don't stop there." She stood motionless, her hands quivering against his shoulders. Bartleby smiled as he delved further, fingers running over fabric, under her tail and beyond it, into the place between her legs, and forwards, feeling the cloth warm and slightly damp to the touch.

He couldn't tear his eyes away from hers. Such expression, in a sydian's eyes. Green with lust, yes, but when he pushed there just so they flamed up a little greener still for a split second, even a moment before she twitched in response. There was the overtone of a blue smile there as she laid one hand on his and with the other began to loosen the folds of her dress. And as he felt his hand being guided inside, until it rested on the wet, hot and soft fur between her legs, not only did they flare up bright green again, but he could see the subtler tones around the edge, of nervousness and anticipation and excitement. And when he moved his thumb, finding the streaming fire of her opening and rubbing against it, he saw the bright explosion of green for only a split second before the eyes snapped shut, and she let out a soft howl of pleasure.

Bartleby pulled himself free and sat down on the edge of the bed, tapping invitingly on his lap. "Care to make yourself comfortable?" Sekla took his hand and began to drape herself over his knees, facing him; he guided her to sit the other way, with her back to him, and pulled her close, until her shoulders pressed against his chest and the small of her back pushed his cock flat against his belly, the length of her tail dangling between his legs. His arms wrapped around her and he planted a moist kiss on the back of her neck.

"I think," she murmured, "this might work better if I was facing you." He didn't reply. His whole mind was fixated with the memory of the green flash in her eyes when he touched her in just the right way. He'd make her eyes burn with green. With more determination than skill he fumbled with the complex fabric of her dress until she gave him some help, guiding him through releasing the folds of material around her waist and legs and pulling them up until she sat revealed to him; the strong golden curves of her legs meeting in a pleasingly curved nexus, covered in the same short fur as the rest of her, and exhibiting her opening, pink and pulsing, streaming from between slightly parted lips.

He traced around it with a finger, feeling her squirm under the arm he kept wrapped around her chest. If only he'd chosen a position where he could look into her eyes! He had to content himself with picturing them in his head.

His fingertip dipped irresistibly between the lips. He could feel the effect of his every movement through the way she moved. As he slid the tip slowly back and forth he felt her shake under his arm; as he found the head to a deeper passage he felt her twitch against his chest; as he pushed the whole finger fully into her, sliding smoothly into a hot and wet comfort that throbbed around it, he felt the thrashing of her tail against his testes.

Experimentally he tried dipping the finger in and out, flexing it, twisting it, pushing and pulling with it. As he did she squirmed and writhed and gasped so expressively that he almost felt he could share what she was feeling. His lips brushed the back of her head. He knew he needed to feel her come in his arms. A second finger slid in besides the first, making her grip slightly tighter and more satisfying to them both. Bartleby started to push them in and out, in and out, in a slow and measured but unrelenting rhythm. Her chest heaved under his arm, her legs tensed against his, her tail coiled and flicked. And as he worked her she cried out wordlessly on each inward stroke, drawing breath on each outward pull, getting louder and higher. She pulsed compulsively against his fingers, in perfect rhythm with their motion. He knew when she came by the explosive wet squeeze of her around his fingers, sending a shudder rippling through her whole body. For a brief moment she was perfectly still and silent, every muscle taut and tense, before she shook with a great gasping exhalation and sat trembling and panting under his arm.