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Evening in Prague on a rainy night. The city’s lamps are flickering on, one by one, a neural pathway, orange haze illuminating the dampened sidewalk and slick asphalt, distorting the shape of the shadows. The sky is moonless. Johan shivers a little, instinctive reaction, his coat too thin for the chilly spring air, and wishes no lights of human civilization surrounded him, that he could move sleekly under the cover of total darkness.
He thrusts a heel unwittingly into a mirrored puddle- the water so still it concealed the depth of the crack- and grimaces in disgust, the dirty water sloshing over the black patent leather, soaking into his white lace stocking. He’s primped and preened, groomed himself into the pleasing shape of a girl. His eyes are outlined with sharply drawn kohl and dusted with silvery powder, cheeks rouged, form cloaked in his print floral dress that so reminds him of his mother’s, a living memory.
Anna Liebert, born of the overlap. Anna Liebert, bright and charming as a bell. Anna Liebert, the girl of no desires, who flows shapeless like water, molds herself seamlessly into any space. The identity drifts around him, never fully setting in, tethered as it always will be to someone else.
But on nights like these he can inhabit it with confidence.
He approaches the door to Jan’s apartment building, presses firmly the button on the call box. In tones lilting and sweet he asks for Jan’s room number, states there’s someone here calling on him. The gates of hell are opened; the wayward pilgrim is granted passage.
The hallway is nondescript and white, cracks and mildew marring the sloppily painted walls and worn carpet. A transitional space, like the cups of a restaurant, its dingy appearance all but advertising the fact that these homes are temporary vessels.
Johan finds the handle to Jan’s own little cup, the door swinging inward with ease. Unlocked. Awaiting his arrival? Or is Jan just that brazen?
Jan greets him with a smile like the glow of a radium watch. “You’re finally here!”
Johan creases his brow in an affectation of playfulness. “Finally? I don’t recall being late.”
Jan slides his hands into his pockets, grins lopsided. Every gesture exudes aw-shucks boyish charm. “You know what I meant. I never dreamed I’d find a girl like you…”
Johan lets him trail off, then waits what he wagers is a socially acceptable length of time to respond. “You’re too sweet,” he replies, woven blonde tresses rippling as he shakes his head, “far too sweet for your own good.”
Jan closes the small distance between them- a hand alights suddenly on Johan’s shoulder like a curious bird. It is fleshy and warm. “Oh come in, come in please. Make yourself comfortable, get cozy…”
Johan slips off his shoes quietly, rests them surreptitiously by Jan’s own pair of work shoes by the door. The floor is cool through the thin fabric of his stockings, but he can tell it’s linoleum, not real wood. The street water has left a grey blotch on the filmy lace shrouding his delicate ankle. He frowns.
Get cozy? Johan thinks as he crosses the room to Jan’s aging couch. What a strange instruction. There are tears in the velvet upholstery he suspects Jan doesn’t know or care enough about to repair. Much of the furniture has a patina of age, likely hand-me-downs from his ailing mother, but it’s arranged in an awkward pattern that makes little sense for the person inhabiting this space to move through. Each surface seems littered with papers or a tableaux of little knicknacks, a clumsy attempt at domesticity. There is a vase of fresh calendulas on a battered white table serving as the centerpiece of what Johan assumes must be the living room. He restrains himself from the urge to dust off the sofa before sitting down, manages to smooth out a crease in his dress instead. He folds his legs primly and gives Jan his best look of starry-eyed adoration. It works, as it always has.
Jan hovers nearby, eyes glazed with love, before snapping to attention. “Oh, I forgot to set out the snacks!” Johan hears his socked feet tap on the kitchen tile as he races over, rummaging through the fridge and pantry. He returns bearing gifts- a plate of various dried meats and cheeses, little salty packages of protein and fat. A bottle of red wine, which he sets with an unceremonious clunk on the table, two stemmed glasses, and bars of cold chocolate- dark.
Jan rubs the back of his head sheepishly. “I didn’t know what you might like, but I got too shy to ask… I hope you’ll enjoy this.” It’s the kind of gesture a different sort of person might feel affection for. To Johan, it only indicates trust, and nothing deeper. The sort of trust he needs. A man like Jan only wants to be useful to others, and that’s all Johan needs of him.
So Johan eats with mechanistic precision, swallowing without tasting. That isn’t right, though, is it? His sense receptors are all in good working order. He’s long since grown out of any childhood brain damage from being shot in the head. So perhaps it is more right to say that the cheese, the meat, the wine all simply slide down his throat, passing through him cleanly and without comment, like the emotions of other people, light projected into a negative space.
He’s good at being looked at, being that mirror, filling that need. Reflecting the desires of others back to them, a symbol interpreted, not a person acting in the world. Just pushing the right buttons and pulling the right strings.
They chat. Their conversation flows through the air as easily as the wine through their mouths. Workplace trifles and petty discontents of Jan’s life, the debris of being human. He flutters, titters, sparkles at appropriate cues. The conversation has not yet slipped onto a deeper, more meaningful thread, not at least until they are both deeply and more meaningfully drunk.
Johan blinks. Time has come unglued, and he processes things differently now. Lagging and incapable. He’s reminded of relearning how to walk long distances in physical therapy, the violated form, the uncoordinated limbs, the single point of fury he became when his body refused to cooperate with his desires.
Jan is still talking, bubbles in an aquarium filter. He weeps softly for his fallen coworkers, loved in spite of their corruption. Mumbles in hushed schoolboy prayer-voice his fears- that the secret police are after him, that he wasn’t right to trust that man, and now he has the tape, this death-talisman, whose significance he doesn’t fully comprehend.
People are like machines, Johan thinks as he sweetly cups Jan’s tear-sodden face, simple functions of input and output. Just keep giving him the right input, keep touching him gently like this, coo soothing things in his ear, and the closer you’ll get to- to-
A rush of air flows into his lungs, lips uncorked. Jan pulls back, wet and flushed. So that was a kiss. He’s never received any but chaste ones from his mother and sister before, never needed to. This new dimension to their relationship throws him off balance, flung abruptly into uncharted territory. He’s forgotten, momentarily, what he was looking for.
“I’m sorry,” Jan breathes shakily, “was that too sudden? I just… you looked so beautiful, holding me like that, and you wanted to comfort me…”
Johan runs a hand along Jan’s scalp and the man shudders in contentment. All is right with the world. He hadn’t realized until now how close they’ve gotten- his knees brush Jan’s own, practically straddling him.
Jan reaches for his waist- viscose rayon doll clothing, fake all the way down- and turns practical into literal. Hugs Johan tightly to his chest. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he sighs. “Sometimes you’re my only comfort in a world like this. You and Mother. Nothing else has turned out like what I envisioned.”
“Mother,” Johan echoes, hands finding firm places on Jan’s chest, pushing himself just slightly away. “Mother- tell me about her, how is she doing?”
Jan blinks, befuddled. “There’s nothing new to tell, really,” he says, shifting in place. One of the hands on Johan’s waist falls to his thigh, the other supporting the small of his back. “The doctors say her physical condition isn’t deteriorating much, at least. But her mind…”
Johan caresses his cheek sympathetically when Jan’s lip begins to tremble again. “I know.” Jan seems to compose himself internally this time, emitting a low sigh. “She’s just as caring and kind as I always remembered her being, just… confused. She’s gone back to when I was a little boy.” He smiles sadly. “I suppose that was the happiest time of her life.”
“Was it?”
Jan’s brows furrow, but he keeps the smile. “Was it what?”
“Was it really the happiest time of her life?
Jan leans back and closes his eyes, reminiscing. “She was always so kind. So loving and welcoming.”
“But was she happy?”
Eyelids slide open, blue meeting blue. “I don’t understand what you’re asking,” Jan confesses.
“Nevermind. I didn’t expect you to.” Jan frowns quizzically, but then Johan changes the patterns his fingers trace, hooking up to scratch behind Jan’s ear. The man he’s straddling groans in satisfaction.
“That’s nice,” Jan says, leaning forward to embrace him, nuzzling his nose into the curve of Johan’s shoulder. He breathes deep, taking in his scent. Grapefruit shampoo, prickly and sharp. Johan shivers involuntary at the heat of his breath passing over this sensitive skin.
Jan raises his head, staring at him in soft focus, a love-imbued smile. Johan pulls his lips back to show he is not a threat and activate Jan’s mirror neurons.
Fingertips cup Johan’s cheek, evaluating it like the skin of a peach at the market. They slip into the hollow where his jaw connects to his neck and pull him closer for another kiss. Johan feels his body bracing as their lips press and slide together, warm and slimy. Eventually he manages to find something of a rhythm that matches Jan’s hunger, motions he can enact somewhat mindlessly, this warm pressure of Jan’s body surrounding him on all sides. Fingers scuttling up and down his thighs, his back, gently squeezing his ass.
Jan pulls back again, gasping for air. A high flush has settled on his cheeks. Johan watches as a contented smile slowly spreads across his face, his eyes closing serenely. A hand kneads the muscle and fat of his stockinged thigh softly, then abruptly slides inward.
Both of them jolt at the contact. Johan finds his heart kicking up several paces, a beaten racehorse. Jan’s face crumples as he tries to process the shape he’s feeling. “What…” he adjusts himself to sit up, having slumped a little during the kissing. Now his fingers move with more deliberate and exploratory motions. Johan holds perfectly still, or tries anyway. His hips finally give an automatic stutter as Jan traces over the head through his panties and he curses under his breath.
Jan meets his eyes again with an inscrutable look. He does not remove his hand from under Johan’s dress, nor does he tense up or jerk away in disgust. He seems to be simply trying to comprehend the mystery of what Johan- what Anna- is.
There’s a long, airless pause. Then Jan softly clears his throat. “You’re… oh… shit, I forgot the word.” He rubs his temple with his free hand. “There’s a word for people like you…”
“Transsexual?” Johan volunteers, his heart pounding. Anything to make whatever process is about to occur be over as swiftly as possible. He had come prepared to kill Jan if necessary, can think of several improvised weapons and potential escape routes right now off the top of his head, but Jan is not reacting with the expected aggression.
Jan smiles brightly, a contestant on a quiz show who has gotten the answer at the last second. “Yeah! That’s it.” The other hand leaves its perch on his temple to massage Johan’s opposite thigh this time. Johan quivers when it does, ghostly palmprint of heat on highly innervated skin.
“Will that be an issue, Jan?” he asks icily. He is trying to remain civil. Civility tends to be a tactic people of all stripes will abide by. Everyone enjoys the company of someone who is polite.
Jan starts petting him again and he squirms, the fabric of his dress rippling. “No, not at all,” he says in a low voice. “I never thought any woman would take an interest in me. It doesn’t matter to me if you weren’t always one.” His fingers dig in again- not hard enough to hurt, never hard enough to hurt- but enough that Johan really feels the pressure of it.
Jan’s smiling at him, soft and boyish again. Fond. To be an object of veneration, adoration even, is not a feeling unknown to Johan, but it has never been so physical, so close before.
Jan glances away, raking his teeth over his bottom lip. He tugs on Johan’s dress shyly, working the fabric through his fingers. “Can we… pick up where we left off?”
Johan shivers in place. “Of course.” He leans back down, weaves his arms around Jan’s torso, feels the man’s spine stiffen in excitement. This is the simplest and most logical path to staying in Jan’s good graces, he reasons. This is what any girl would do to keep Jan’s love. His desires are very simple.
Jan’s kisses get rawer, rougher, his body squirming beneath Johan. There’s a mounting pressure through Jan’s clothes, pressing insistently into the cleft of his ass, and Jan grinds it hard against the thin cotton barrier of Johan’s panties, the only delineation of space between them. He lets out a deep, echoing moan and Johan clenches his fists in Jan’s shirt, the palms sweaty.
“Oh- stop, stop,” Jan pants hard, the first to pull away this time. His usually neatly combed blonde hair is ruffled and out of sorts, strands sticking damply to his slick forehead. He grips Johan’s hips to steady himself, a drowning man desperately seeking flotsam to clamber atop. Johan stares at him, dazed. His own body has responded to the touches, quite without his own input, and now a hard shape is poking through the folds of his dress.
Jan’s hand falls upon it, idly caressing it, and he flinches. Johan wills his muscles to unlock, but they don’t receive the order to stop moving, and so he trembles in place, vibrating at an insane speed. “Oh, did you like that?” Jan teases. Johan doesn’t answer.
A probing, gentle hand on his chin, slowly rotating his skull to look at him. With a surgeon’s precision, he might say. But that surgeon would never touch him like this, would never want to touch him like this, and that he understands implicitly, so why-
“Anna.” Eyes, face, voice all so soft. The features of Jan’s face are nowhere near as fine as Johan’s; his bone structure is different, more boxy. But his eyes, Johan notes, are the exact same piercing blue. “Can we… take this to the bedroom?”
He hesitates, perhaps a moment too long, and Jan clarifies: “It’s just that… well, doing it in the living room’s not very romantic, is it? And I’m sure you could tell it’s my first time, heh…”
“I couldn’t,” Johan blurts in a fit of uncharacteristic honesty. Nothing he’s ever experienced in the short span he’s walked this earth has ever been remotely like this. This seems to surprise Jan, for his eyes widen and his mouth goes slack. “Oh… uh…”
Awkward silence. Johan finds himself slipping off Jan’s lap, skirt still erect, body stickily heated. The sweat superglues the dress to the various crevices and valleys of his body, clinging uncomfortably to his armpits and his inner thighs. He dispenses the energy pulsing through him by carefully peeling it back from his flushed skin. Just like pulling sinew away from muscle, he thinks, the deconstruction of something already dead.
Jan clears his throat, expectant, and Johan looks up from his little task. He realizes he’d never given Jan a straight answer. The atmosphere itself feels stuffy, cinched, drawing tight to a single point. The only conceivable outcome. Johan inhales through his nose. Exhales as a sigh. Softens his face into angelic sweetness again.
“You’re right,” he says, offering Jan his hand. He is ever so precise to modulate his movement. Too fast and Jan would be repelled by his rushing; too slow and he would question him. It is a matter of artful gradation, mimicry- of love, enthusiasm, whatever humans feel when they fuck- to get it right.
His fingers lock with Jan’s and Johan sees stars flaring in the depths of his eyes. Jan rises from his chair like a great beast and Johan stands en pointe, mutely, to kiss him and be taken in his arms.
Jan’s bedroom is lightless and anaerobic, the only view of the outside world a slit of stars through a blackout curtain, which Jan neatly tugs shut. The briefly illuminated objects within sink into a soupy darkness, and Johan trips over a hard mass as he enters, stumbling. But he doesn’t begrudge the abyss for its hidden obstacles. It is, after all, familiar to him.
He just never knew it could be this warm.
Back of thighs bumping against something soft that creaks when he presses into it- that must be the mattress- then spine, then head-
“Jan!” he squeals. He is surprised by the tone of his voice. It hasn’t been so sharp, so bright and high since he was a child.
A hand slithers forward to him, braids its fingers with his own. An immense weight furrows the mattress beside him and brings itself closer, radiating heat. “Are you alright?” Jan asks, sotto voce. The hand creeps into the blonde strands of his wig, gently rubbing at the scalp. “You’re shaking,” Jan observes. Johan hadn’t even noticed. He shuts his eyes and submits fully to Jan’s soothing touches.
More kissing and petting. He can deal with the kissing. Rationalize it away as just what needs to be done. Crumple it up and fling it away into his other self with all their shared sorrows and her wretched memories. Worse things have happened and soon enough he and Jan will both be dead and inert beneath the soils of the earth, blessedly unable to interact with the environment around them in any meaningful way. Whatever is done to them simply will be done, with no decisions on their part, no experience, just vacant, formless emptiness-
Jan’s fingertips slip under the nylon seam where the wig cap is stretched over Johan’s head. He frowns- somehow Johan is able to feel him frowning through the kiss alone- and tests the flexibility of the nylon, wiggling it back and forth under his hand. The pads of his fingers slip underneath to explore further, lightly stroking sweat-dampened ringlets.
“What’s…” Jan says quizzically, processing again. Johan remains rigid as a stone. Then, understanding seems to wash over Jan, and he withdraws. The hand finds a resting place on his shoulder. He is never not touching Johan, it seems.
“You had hair under there,” Jan announces with great sympathy. “You weren’t shorn. I honestly thought that was your natural hair before. It looks so lifelike.”
Lifelike. Life approximating life. Something in the word makes Johan’s center go cold. Jan strokes his cheek. “What color is it? Why don’t you grow it out? I’m sure it’s just as pretty as the wig. And that patch of skin that’s raised up a bit, what’s going on there?”
“Why do you need to know?” Johan bites out. Jan tenses beside him, then relaxes.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I was just curious. It felt so odd.”
“Why couldn’t you have left it alone, then?” He sniffs. It’s dusty, triggers the urge to sneeze. “You might be a detective, but not everything about a woman is a mystery to be solved.”
Jan’s face and voice drop sadly. “Oh, Anna, Anna, dear, I’m so sorry. I won’t do it again, honest.” His arms are outstretched; a plea not to leave the bed, though Johan hasn’t even moved.
Focus. Try to regroup. Read Jan over again. What does a man like Jan want?
Then he remembers, and slides further into Jan’s arms. Lets Jan fumble blindly with the neckline of his dress, drawing it over his head as if it were only an animal’s hide and he a trapper in training. Jan reaches for the clasp of Johan’s bra and he stops him, seizing his wrist just before it’s undone.
He cuts Jan off before he gets the chance to ask. “I want to leave it on,” he whispers faintly. He brings Jan’s hand around to his chest, surmising it’s easier to explain things to the man with actions rather than words. Jan’s finger runs down another seam-line, invisible to all during the day- the juncture between a silicone breast form and Johan’s warm skin.
Jan laughs, a harsh little snort. “You really haven’t been a woman long, have you?”
How is Johan possibly supposed to answer that in any form but the negative? But Jan offers him a pacifying kiss, rubbing firm circles into the sweaty expanse of Johan’s slender back. “I don’t care. I just want to be with you. I want to feel this with you,” he whispers on heated breaths, hooking his fingers into the waistband of Johan’s panties and ever so slowly dragging them down. Then they are gone. Vanished into the great featureless mystery that is Jan’s room.
Jan grips his hips and rolls him, firmly but painlessly, onto his back. Slips his tongue into Johan’s slack mouth, kneads his bare ass cheek with soft but insistent pressure. He kisses down Johan’s body very lightly, supplementing it with wet drifts of his tongue, sampling his sweat. Could he taste the difference between apocrine and eccrine? The subtle fluctuations in his hormonal matrix? The blood rushing through his fluttering heart?
Johan watches the crown of Jan’s head travel down the line of his navel, the smooth, tight flatness of his lower stomach, gripping onto a leg enveloped in lace to steady himself. Then, he pauses. Confronted with the central oddity of Johan’s body, an erect penis, he is at a complete loss, and Johan is none the wiser. He massages Johan’s thigh tenderly. “Um,” he starts, losing some of the boldness that had propelled him, “I’m not sure what to do here…”
His hot breath washes over the sensitive organ and it twitches, Johan feels it twitch, and closes his eyes. “That’s fine. You can skip that part.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, please, just get on with it…”
He hears Jan smiling even if he can’t see it. “Eager girl,” he praises, leaving a last kiss on Johan’s belly before crawling back up to lie parallel atop him once more.
The clink and jingle of an unclasped belt alerts Johan again to what is about to occur, the real intention of the evening, the thing he’s danced and flirted with and skirted around all night and still couldn’t entertain to its satisfaction. The only way out, as they say, is through.
Still, some little piece of information kicks around, half-remembered. An article from a medical journal detailing new innovations in rectal endoscopy. He used to look at them, first to gain insights into the mind of the doctor, then to learn new means of ending lives, and then purely for the strongest positive feeling he has- genuine interest. “Wait,” he says, just as Jan is pressing the head of his own member to Johan’s unprepared entrance. Jan pauses, drawing back, and just a hint of the tension in Johan’s muscles releases. “What’s wrong?”
Johan’s face and torso blaze with an inexplicable warmth. “I need lubricant. I’m dry inside. I don’t make the same sort of wetness that most girls do.”
Soft pawing behind him on the sheet. “Oh, um…” Jan mumbles, lost in thought. “Think I have some petroleum jelly in the bathroom cabinet.”
“That will work,” Johan says. It has to. He hears Jan shuffling in the dark after he slips off the bed, then casts a spectre of watery light across the floor from the attached bathroom. It illuminates piles of dirty clothes, an unkempt floor. He can see a sliver of Jan in the entryway, Jan in cross-section, rifling through the medicine cabinet before shedding his own clothing, and then he’s there again, in the dark, naked and hard beside him.
Jan twists off the blue plastic lid, dips two fingers into the citrine grease. It glimmers on his nails. “It’s funny,” Jan remarks, “I only ever used this for chapped lips before.”
Johan breathes heavily. “May I do this part?”
“Hm? Oh, sure. As long as I can watch.” It’s a joke, Johan thinks, but he doesn’t laugh.
It proves to be much more bearable, if uncomfortably slimy, for Johan to open himself up on his own fingers. He can control the depth of the invasion; the heat in his core does not bother him. It might even hold a vague appeal, if he were fully alone, to experiment with this vast space inside him that he’d never before thought to explore. His knuckles catch on the rim- a strange rubbery texture- as he recedes for good.
For his own part, Jan has greased the length of his cock- gone further in fact, sat there stroking it while watching Johan with intense scrutiny. It’s clear at once that this is far from the first time he’s pictured Anna like this in his mind, and now the real thing makes him quiver in excitement, biting his lip.
And now he’s drawing nearer again, inevitable as the moon eclipsing the sun, a shroud drawn over the sky, distorting reality beyond anything Johan has known prior. He pats his lap, his shining cock, as if it’s some privilege for Johan to ride it, as if the extra meaning here he’s supposed to grasp is clear as day before him. He settles in atop him, and a hard fleshy something slides into him, and he gasps brokenly when it starts moving.
Jan drops his head to Johan’s shoulder again. His breath is a greenhouse, moist and feverish. His arms wrap around Johan’s body like clinging vines. Each thrust inward activates some highly sensitive branch of nerves within Johan’s lower half, his own member responding to the sensation by leaking a translucent fluid onto his stomach. It aches somehow in a way that is not pain, and yet the thought of touching it is somehow unbearable. Each time it juts up against Jan’s stomach his insides clench around the thing sheathed in them, constantly pushing forward and back but never pulling completely out.
An idea trickles into Johan’s skull and he begins to shove and grind down harder, in the hopes that satisfying Jan will bring this whole procedure to a stop, but all he’s rewarded with is the depletion of his own stamina. It’s like a triathlon, every muscle group flexed and tested to its very limit. It becomes steadily more painful to lift and lower his ass with each repetition of the movement.
“Your poor thighs are trembling,” Jan notices, a pleasured wobble in his voice. “Anna, oh,” he cries out as Johan sinks down upon him once again. “Please, that feels so good, but you must be getting tired… Why don’t you lie down on your back, let me take care of you?”
Johan doesn’t respond. Trying to stare off into the distance. To focus on any discernible object in the velvety blackness that engulfs them, anything but what’s nearest.
“Anna? Are you alright?”
Thinking about the woman in the hospital bed, brain curdled by age and disease, asking eternally after this man as if he were a little boy. He took you to see her, once, hoping he’d get her approval to marry you, despite knowing she would likely forget the whole encounter once it was over. He told you she used to be a schoolteacher, ages ago. Sharp as she momentarily was once the clouds lifted, you would never have guessed. Too consumed by the memory of her son, frozen in amber.
You have to push away his concern. You have to grit your teeth and get through it. So you slide off his lap and let him crawl on top of you, like he’s clearly been wanting to all night, and busy your mind with visions of the end while he thrusts back into you and chants praises into your ear. You realize now there is another end you failed to consider, a kind of living death, the logical result of existing purely for someone else’s benefit, the thing you’ve been running from all this time. There’s no way to erase yourself from the mind of a man who’s determined to make you his, not even if you killed yourself in front of him.
The points of Johan’s elegantly manicured nails dig sharply into the flesh of Jan’s upper back as his mind roves, desperate for a weapon, anything within reach. Jan just hisses in further pleasure, drives in a little harder. “You like it rougher, then?” he gasps. “I can be rough for you…”
He captures Johan’s lips before he has a chance to answer. Johan finds himself leaking little noises with each thrust, his back arching where it’s been pinned to the mattress, a crucified insect. The tape. He’s here for the tape. He can endure the wetness and the pressure and the constant, unrelenting stimulation if only he keeps this goal in mind.
Jan strikes something deep within him and he howls, whole body jerking, liquid sluicing hot from his tear glands, steam on snow. The muscles in his lower body are tightening, a dopamine flood forcing its way through a crack in the dam, and he simply doesn’t want it. Doesn’t want to feel it as Jan speeds up and shudders, hot semen gushing into his wet red insides, the broken cry he emits as he reaches his climax. Something is approaching fast and he wants to scramble away, wants the meekness of nonentity, the brain-shattering finality of the bullet.
Jan is still above him, no longer thrusting forward with the same rapacious intensity he had before. He’s simply catching his breath, no different than if he missed the bus to work and had to run. Johan lies there still impaled by his softening cock and tries not to weep.
“Fuck, that was amazing,” Jan sighs, skimming a hand over Johan’s belly, palm brushing against his untouched erection, the tip sticky with precum. “You haven’t finished? Here, let me…”
And Jan loops his fingers into a tight O around the tip, and Johan shuts his eyes and can barely describe the sensation- he has no frame of reference for it. Too much. Too real, too vivid. He gnashes his teeth and sobs.
“Oh, that’s it, good girl, just let it out,” Jan soothes. “You’re almost there.”
And then he is there, and feels himself clenching around the soft organ still buried inside him as something wet and hot sullies his stomach, and then it’s over. All that effort to this end. He struggles to see the purpose of it, fucked firmly into life.
Jan pulls out of him and wants to cuddle, of course he does, so Johan tolerates being pressed against him with viscous fluids cooling on his skin for an indeterminate length of time as Jan rambles idly about his love for her, his plans for their future. A better apartment, maybe even a house, a white dress, and adopted children. The tape is somewhere in this flat, Johan remembers dimly, but how could he possibly search for it while wrapped up in the arms of such a devoted partner?
And even then, he feels the physical exhaustion hollowing him out. Grimaces silently at the knowledge that he’ll likely be sleeping in the same bed with Jan tonight.
“I need to shower,” he interjects once Jan has come to a momentary lull in his monologue.
“Hm? Oh, right. Well, you saw where my bathroom was. It’s in there.” Jan brightens a bit, sits up beside him. “I could wash your hair.”
“I want to do it myself,” Johan grits out. Clenches his teeth like he holds the pointed end of a dagger in his mouth. Unexpectedly, Jan relents. “If you insist,” he says with a smile. “Just come back to bed when you’re done.”
A perfectly reasonable request for any man to make of his girl. Why wouldn’t Johan come back? What reason would he have to force his way through the air ducts and drag himself brokenly away through Prague’s streets?
He shuts the bathroom door behind him, considers locking it, decides against it. Ceramic tiles in a cheery mint green welcome him. Each of the surfaces are ever so slightly dirty and there’s a to-do list pinned to the mirror. This is no place to purify oneself, but it’s all he’s got. He strips off the stockings, rain-soaked and cum-stained, undoes the clasp of his bra, pulls off the flowing golden mass of the wig and scratches his sweaty hairline. He’s no longer Anna, anymore. He isn’t anybody.
But the man sleeping just outside this room is expecting him to be his girl, so he’ll have to, at least for the rest of the night.
Johan turns on the showerhead, steps inside a plume of white steam, and tries to erase himself.