NightSide - Asynchronous Mud

Mark Stuart was by any measure one of the most gifted computer scientists of his generation, and he'd started three companies that, in quick succession, had redefined how so-called autonomous, self-driving cars navigated and operated in heavily congested, chaotic urban environments. His patents alone would have made him a billionaire many times over, but then he had put his ideas into action, and his actions drew investors. And when his first company, PraXionGroup, released it's first hardware plug-in for Apple's first-generation car in late 2022, the world changed. Their car could now drive in zero visibility on snow or icy surfaces as well as any driver could on a clear, dry street, and it's sensor array applied predictive analysis routines to monitor pedestrians on crowded city streets -- and all the early, and disastrous, fatality incidents soon became a thing of the past.

And that mattered to Mark Stuart because he'd been one of the earliest victims of the technology. He'd been run over by one of the first driverless vehicles on a test track, his pelvis crushed, his face and arms hideously disfigured. It had taken three years of painful reconstructive surgery to resurrect his ability to walk unaided, but plastic surgeons had simply been unable to salvage his appearance. As a result, he remained reclusive, worked out of sight from all but his closest friends and associates.

And as such he'd been alone, completely and utterly alone, ever since. He saw the looks in people's eyes, the revulsion, the urge to flee, and he'd vowed to never again inflict such feelings on others again.

Then an old friend of his, a friend named Toby Tyler, a friend he'd made while in the hospital when recovering from his injuries, told him about a place he'd heard about recently, a new place over in China Town that had the most outrageously gorgeous women Toby'd ever seen in his life, and while it was apparently open to one and all, the women seemed to cater to men like Mark; indeed, they seemed to exist to take care of men like Mark.

"What kind of women are we talking about here, Toby?" he asked.

"You know, bro, the kind that take care of business."

"Oh, you mean..."

Stuart had laughed away the idea. At first, anyway. Then the thought of being with someone, anyone -- even a hooker -- took on a momentum all it's own. The idea, repulsive at first, soon became so attractive he could hardly think of anything else...so he'd called Toby, gotten the particulars and made the call, and now he found himself walking up Washington Street, looking for an address...and a way out of the pain and suffering of his strictly enforced loneliness.

He came to an alleyway and looked down at what looked like very old brick pavement, then up at the festive lighting dangling from the trees and attached to the backs of buildings that lined the passage. He saw neon lighting down the way, an open courtyard with a large group of people partying on a patio of some kind. He walked down the alley, looked up at little red jalapeño pepper lights splashed throughout the trees overhead, at neon reflections in the windows on either side of the passage, the pinks and purples creating an almost otherworldly sensation as he walked slowly towards a door at the end of the alley.

The door was a dark, matte teal-grey color, and there was a huge, weathered bronze X on the door right at eye level, and in smaller letters just below -- the words 'Marks the Spot'. He smiled at the double irony as he reached for the door, but he jumped back when he looked at the door knob. The handle and knob were formed by a small, tightly coiled rattlesnake, made of bronze as it turned out, but excruciatingly well detailed, so even knowing that he hesitated again as he reached for the snake's body and gave it a turn.

Yet as soon as his hands touched the snake the door opened, slowly moving out of his way.

The walls inside were the same deep, matte teal-gray color, the heavy trim on the floors and ceiling a darker grey green. The black slate floors and the deep gray ceiling seemed unnecessarily elegant to him, the bronze framed Klimt ahead a bit over the top, yet now his eyes were drawn to a single Chippendale chair at the far end of the narrow room, it's ornate wood stained a deep bronze, it's rich fabric a flame stitched pattern of deep French blues and somber ochers.

And there was a glass window across from the chair, recessed in the wall and almost invisible, a mottled black glass window much like he would have expected to find inside a sadistic doctor's office. He walked to the window and looked around...he couldn't see a buzzer or any means of...

But then the window slid open, quietly and very slowly, revealing a touchscreen.

A woman's voice began speaking, soothingly, almost seductively...

"How may we help you this evening, Mark?"

"Excuse me?" He seemed taken aback, shocked that they knew who he was.

"I'm sorry for the informality, Mr Stuart. What can we do for you this evening?"

"I, uh, well, assumed you'd know...?"

"Ah, just so. Perhaps you wanted to visit with one of our associates tonight?"

"Yes. Perhaps."

"Could you tell me what sort of associate is of interest to you?"

"Excuse me...I'm not sure I understand what you're asking?"

"Yes. Of course. Shall we start with gender?"

"Female, Goddamnit!"

"Alright. Take a look at these six images, would you please, Mark? Which one of these women interests you most?" The screen showed six faces, each impossibly attractive, each one taking his breath away. "It's a touchscreen, Mr Stuart. Just indicate your preference by..."

He touched the face of a women with deep reddish gold hair and deep green eyes.

"Thank you, Mr Stuart..."

"Mark, please. Call me Mark."

"Certainly, Mark. Now, which of these images do you find most stimulating?" Six more images filled the screen, the red-headed woman dressed -- or in various states of undress, he saw -- in six different types of exotic lingerie. He chose one with the woman in bustier, corset and stockings in deep gray with emerald inserts, and the woman wearing deep maroon pumps. "Thank you, Mark. Now, could you tell me, in very general terms, how you'd like to spend your evening with Eve?"

"Is that her name? Eve?"

"Yes, Mark. And as this is your first evening with us, she'll need to know a little about your expectations for the evening."

He looked around for a moment, unsure of himself, unsure how honest he should be...

"Mark?"

"Yes?"

"Are you lonely, Mark?"

He looked down at the slate floor and shrugged his shoulders. "I think you could say so, yes."

"How long has it been, Mark? Since you spent an enjoyable evening with a woman?"

"A long time. I think it may be close to maybe sixteen years now."

"Perhaps you'd just like a relaxing evening? Dinner and some dancing? An evening with no pressure, no expectations?"

"Yes, that's it exactly!" he cried. "That sounds absolutely perfect!"

"And just one more question, Mark?"

"Yes?"

"How long would you like to stay with Eve?"

"I don't know. How long would you recommend?"

"Perhaps you should stay with her all evening. What time would you like her to wake you in the morning?"

"I don't have any appointments tomorrow so anytime will do. Perhaps noon?"

"Certainly, Mark. If you'd take a seat, Eve will be with you in just a few minutes." The screen went dark and the window closed as quietly as it'd opened, and he sat, crossed his arms on his lap and closed his eyes -- wondering about his sanity for the umpteenth time today.

Yet he saw her in his mind's eye as he drifted along the far shores of sleep, carried along by the soft currents of desires too long unquenched. Alabaster skin, perhaps soft freckles over her nose, and those hauntingly green eyes of hers lovingly fixed on his...

...and he felt her fingers running through his hair, her lips almost touching the side of his face, her breath in his ear as she whispered his name...

He opened his eyes, saw her standing there by the side of the chair, leaning by his side. A deep maroon cape was hanging open, revealing an impossibly perfect body underneath, and as he leaned back in the chair he looked up into her eyes...

...and if her image had taken his breath away, the reality of this woman was beyond overwhelming. His heart began to race a little, and he could feel his pulse hammering away behind his eyes.

She looked into his eyes and smiled when she saw his reaction, then she leaned closer and kissed him on the forehead, the soft warmth of the simple gesture overwhelming him completely. He wanted to take her and hold her, and almost as if she anticipated him she stepped back, took his hand and helped him stand. Then the back wall simply slid open, revealing another ornate passageway beyond this entry foyer; now he followed her to a another door down this hall and walked into the room beyond just behind her. The door closed on it's own, the lighting in the room brightened some, revealing what looked like a small living room in an English cottage. Beyond the windows he saw an impossibly verdant forest -- hi-res monitors, he guessed -- but the illusion fit the décor, and even the air was scented in fragrant undertones of piney forests, yet there was something slightly erotic in the air, as well...

"Could I fix you a drink?" Eve asked. "Or perhaps I could get you something to eat?"

"Perhaps," he said as he hovered over the edge of her vast precipice. "I don't know."

"Are you uncertain, or perhaps afraid?" she asked, genuine concern in her voice.

"Yes, a little of both, I think."

She held out her hand again and led him to a bedroom off the small living room, the same countryside out the two large windows that framed the bed. She was looking in his eyes when she started unbuttoning his shirt, and all the time she held his eyes in hers. She bent and unbuckled his belt, helped him out of his shoes and socks, then she asked him to lay on the bed, on his stomach, she asked. He did what she asked, but when he heard the cape slip from her shoulders he turned and looked at her.

"My God in heaven," he whispered, "but you are the most gorgeous woman I think I've ever seen in my life."

He watched her as she smiled, and as she helped him down to the bed he marveled at the soft warmth of her touch, and of how much he missed that little electric feeling of another person's skin on his own. Whatever it was about this woman, he knew against all odds he was beginning to care for her. He couldn't help it, even if it was just loneliness, even if this was some kind of financial transaction. The feeling was suddenly overwhelming, and the feeling was simply impossible to ignore.

Then he was face down on the bed, and he felt her fingers lightly running up and and down his back, then down, to the backs of his thighs. He began to relax again, to drift along her gentle currents...

He felt her on the bed then, as she crawled over him and sat on the backs of his thighs. Then he felt the palms of her hands on his skin, once again her skin so soft and warm, rubbing his lower back, up the spine to his shoulders, massaging the cares of this life out and away, into the night and far, far away. Oh, he was drifting again, drifting on the currents of this woman's exuberant willingness to give of herself, to forge a reality beyond his so-called deformities and weaknesses, beyond all his understanding of women...

He felt her leaning forward, leaning close, her breath on the back of his neck, her fingers in his hair, then, massaging his temples. He felt her breasts flattening on his back, felt her lingerie against his skin, her high heels rubbing against the sides of his knees -- and he felt himself growing under her. For the first time in many years, so many years since he had felt any kind of awakening...since he'd felt any kind of desire lurking behind all the fear and denial of his daily existence...

"Turn over, Mark..." he heard her whisper, then he felt her body rising over his, over the heat of his desire as he turned under her...

...and her fingers wrapped around the head of his desire...

...then she was rubbing him against her petals, a deep, moist warmth pulling him inward...

...and then he was inside the moment, the sheer heavenly warmth of the sensation overwhelming his every sense of himself, and soon he was lost inside the dizzying motions of union...

...then drifting again as he felt the tightness of her response to his first, tentative countermoves. She moved with him, her responses so intuitively perfect, her timing so gently in sync with every move of this new dance...

...his hands on her perfection, her breathing unhurried -- yet somehow in perfect rhythm with his own...

...meeting his need, taking the momentum of his fear, her fingers raking his soul, then her fingers curling through his need, her needs as pure as his own, his furious need building in union with hers, and then he was holding her close, guiding them both to the moment...to the light...

...then there was light, unexpected, powerful, relentless, and she was bearing down on his need, pouring all the energy of their coming together into a sort of back-arcing fusion, wild need overcoming all inhibition...

They came down together, her face pressed against his neck, her easy breath a silent breeze sifting past his ear, then he was holding her, his fingers feeling the expansion of her chest, her ribcage fusing with the moment, then she was over him again, looking into his eyes, smiling.

She saw the question in his eyes and pulled back a bit, her face full of curiosity, even joy.

"What is it," she said playfully. "Your eyes are smiling, but I think..."

"I think I love you," he laughed, "whoever you are..."

"Love me?" she whispered slowly, almost wondrously as she turned the words over in her smile. "Why would you love me? You don't even know me?"

"Because it's been so long since anyone let me feel this way. Because you're so enchantingly perfect. Because when I look into your eyes I feel so perfectly at peace, yet so alive with the lust I see in your eyes."

"Ah," she grinned, then she let slip a little laugh. "Then Mark, you've got it very bad indeed."

"I do. True."

"And then what, Mark? Love, marriage, babies and a house by the lake?"

"Would that be so bad?"

She pulled off him, rolled away and hopped off the bed. "It's too early to get so serious, my love. What will I cook you for supper? A steak perhaps? I also have a nice Dover sole ready, if you'd like that instead. Almandine, perhaps? With an artichoke soufflé and braised new potatoes?"

"What? And you'll just whip that out in a 'jiff, will you?"

"Ooh, Mark, don't start talking about whips or I'll never get you to eat..." She breathed a little laugh as she walked off to the kitchen, and he put on his briefs and shirt before he walked out to the living room, to a chair where he could watch her as she went about her work in the kitchen...

'There's something almost surreal about watching a woman in lingerie cooking,' he said to himself, but there was precision in the way she cooked, an economy of motion he found almost soothing, and she talked to him all the while, asking about what he was doing at work, about his friends and what he hoped to do with the rest of his weekend. And what hit him hardest, he thought as she set their dinner out on the simple Stickley table off the little kitchen, was how completely out of sync her behavior was with how the world he knew really worked.

She seemed completely dedicated to his happiness, but it wasn't as simple as that. No, the level of empathy in her conversation wasn't forced or in any other way a false pretense. On the contrary, she seemed engaged, interested, and even willing to offer suggestions that reflected an almost complete empathic understanding of his concerns and hopes, and even what he was working on. Let alone how the hell did she know sautéed Dover sole almandine was his favorite dish in the world? And artichoke soufflé? There were only two places in town that prepared one, and yet she'd just made it to perfection? Even better than Gaston's!

She watched him as he ate, enjoyed his reactions to each and every bite, then she saw seriousness in his eyes, a subtle shift in the way he held his arms...

"So, Eve's not your real name, I take it?"

She shrugged, yet he saw no evasion.

"No, of course not. I wonder? Would you tell me your real name?"

"Is it so important, Mark? Really?"

"Well, how long have you been working here?"

"Me? This is my first day. You are my first...client."

"And you were trained to be so, I don't know, so perfect?"

"You think I'm perfect, Mark?"

"You know I do, Eve. Don't you?"

She shook her head, and he thought he saw tears come to her.

"I'm sorry," he said, suddenly very unsure of himself, very unsure why he felt it necessary to question her so. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"Well," she said as she stood, "I'd better clear the table."

"Please, let me," he said as he stood.

"If you'd like," she said as she walked to the sink in the kitchen. He walked up behind her, put his hands on her waist and kissed her neck, and she leaned her head to one side, revealing her flawless white skin once again. He kissed her again, massaged her flat stomach as he nibbled his way up to her ear, his hands moving to her breasts, her breath deeper with each caress.

She turned and faced him, kissed him hard on the mouth, their tongues intertwined in the heat of the moment. She was more forceful this time, no pretense remained as she pushed him back and pulled down his briefs, as she took him in her mouth, her hands on the backs of his thighs. No, there was no doubt, nothing subtle between them now. He felt her tongue, her head moving rapidly now, her hands grasping his, jacking him as her head swirled around his need. His hands moved to her shoulders, then he was holding her face as the fury grew from the middle of his back and spread throughout his body, and she picked up the pace, hammered him furiously as the moment approached, then she was taking him over the edge, holding him inside her mouth, swallowing as he released and released...

He felt almost weightless in that moment...weightless and tumbling backwards...then he felt her holding him, steadying him. She stood, pulled him close and held him as he came down for the stars, her fingers running through his hair again, then he was kissing her neck...again and again...

"And we didn't even need whips," he said, smiling.

"Maybe next time, my love."

+++++

He woke up the next morning as hopelessly confused as he had ever felt -- in his life. She was by his side, lightly stroking his hair, looking into his eyes with such love in her own. He rolled over and faced her, brushed her cheek lightly with his fingers as they stared at one another...

"Did you ever fall asleep?" he asked her.

She shook her head. "Maybe a little, but I'm still not sleepy," she added, still smiling gently at him, barely biting her lower lip. "I liked watching you sleep."

"You did?"

She nodded her head -- almost precociously: "Um-hmm, yes. You can tell a lot about a man by the way he sleeps."

"Can you, now? Like what?"

"Men don't lie when you ask them questions," she grinned, "when they're just falling asleep, anyway."

"And what did you ask me?"

She rolled over and looked at the ceiling, smiling broadly at his question, then she turned back to him, looked him in the eye. "Do you really want me to tell you?"

"Yes, I really do."

"I asked you if you really, really loved me."

"And I said yes, didn't I?"

She bit her lip again, nodded her head. "Yes," she said, almost afraid to say the word.

"And what did you think of that?"

"I felt very happy inside, like little girl kind of happy. Like it was Christmas morning and I got everything I'd ever wanted kind of happy."