0 comments/ 16226 views/ 4 favorites Lara Croft: After a Battle By: justtheone Lara Croft: After a Battle or Playing the Beauty with Two Beasts >> Inspired by the art of DeTomasso ... 1. Collin asked, "Did that really happen?" He waited, but they didn't answer him. "Did that really happen?" he asked again, "Or did I just the dream the whole thing, just now?" Lara had been asking herself the same question. There was no real reason for the fire they'd made. The moon was full, and the climate in this place was mild. They hadn't done any cooking; none of them wanted to eat. "Am I the only one still awake?" Collin said. "Not as long as you keep talking," Grief said. "I'm sorry," Collin said, "I'm still too keyed up. I get that way. I always get real keyed up, after a scrap." It had been a bit more than a scrap. Two men hadn't come out of there. She hadn't liked either of them much. This was a harsh thing to say, but all the same she was glad it had been those guys that went down, and not Collin or Grief. Or herself, of course. But nobody deserved to go out like that. Not even stupid cunts like those two guys had been. This was all only half an hour ago ... Hardie had led them down into catacombs, behind the waterfall ... She really hadn't expected they would find anything. She thought the man was daft, and that the scroll he was working from was a forgery. But the entrance turned out right where he said it would be, and he knew the trick to open the door. Ten minutes later, maybe less, they were attacked. Mummies. Actual mummies, clambering out from the walls. Dozens of the damn things. Maybe they were only regular men in costumes. She hoped that was the case. But they hadn't been easy to kill. Took an awful lot of bullets to put one down—even headshots didn't get the job done. Even then, there could be a rational explanation. Mustn't let oneself be duped. Religious mania, funny drugs. God knows. They got Hardie and his principal associate, Maynard. They hadn't killed them, though. Not right away. When Lara last saw the wretched bastards, both screaming men were being held down on stone tables and wrapped all over in bandages ... The mummies, several working at once, were mummifying them. Alive. They'd invited Lara to tag along on this trip in an earnest if somewhat pathetic bid to make her take them seriously as fellow archaeologists. She had agreed because she was quite sure they'd fall on their faces and she was rather looking forward to seeing it, when that occurred. Not very nice of her, but there you are ... Collin and Grief were hired as muscle. She had been slightly acquainted with both for a couple years. She had never employed them herself, of course—Lara Croft never employed such men—but they had each crossed her path, on a few occasions, and provided useful aid for her in tight spots. Separately, not together. They were individual operators, not an ongoing partnership like Hardie and Maynard were. Collin was wiry and wolfish. Gordon "Good" Grief had the build of the proverbial brick shithouse. Decent enough chaps, as far as their type goes. Today, it must be said, they hadn't done much of a job providing protection for anybody but themselves. But she couldn't hold it against them. They were hired against the slim possibility of trouble from local bandits and predatory wildlife—not to face a howling swarm of almost unkillable mummies in that lightless maze of tunnels. Lara hadn't acted any more noble, this time, had she? And she was feeling pretty altogether rotten over it. She could have gone back for the unlucky cunts. She should have tried harder to reach them, when she saw what was being done to them. There had been time to act—to make a go of it, while they were still visibly struggling. It hadn't been too late. Despite the odds, she wasn't anywhere near short of ammunition. But she hadn't tried at all. Hadn't even waffled over the question. She just hightailed it out of there, same as the two mercenaries had, to save her own sweet skin. Simple truth was, she hadn't cared enough about those guys. Couple of berks, the pair of them. The only reason she was on the scene at all had been in the cruel expectation of mocking them, when those silly catacombs they said were "waiting to be uncovered" turned out not to exist, outside their fevered imaginations. Now it was proven they weren't quite so wrongheaded after all. No, put it square: They'd been right and she'd been wrong. Fair enough. Fat lot of good it had done them. Christ, what a mess. Not her finest hour, no sir. She felt like an absolute shit. "You know what's funny?" Collin said, "The funniest part was I enjoyed all that. That was cool as hell. That was the coolest fucking thing that's ever happened to me. Fucking mummies! Man! I didn't get scared at all. I'm sure that sounds like bullshit. Like I'm talking myself up. But I'm not. Actually it scares me now, when I keep thinking back through it. But not the memories, I mean. I'm enjoying the memories. They're awesome. That's what scares me, though—that it didn't scare me and it still doesn't. I liked it. I had fun. When two guys got ... taken like that. Entombed by horror movie monsters right in front of us. That's fucked up. I guess I'm a little sick. I guess I knew that already but ... Well. Fuck." He laughed. "I know, I know. I need to shut the fuck up. Wish I could, but I'm wired. I'm like a little kid, when I get worked up this way. Like a little kid on a sugar high. I know it makes me annoying. Believe me, I know. I'm annoying myself just as bad, I really am. I swear." "I always get really horny," Grief said. The others let that sit, without comment. But Grief, for whatever daft reason of his own, couldn't let it drop ... "It's not from the violence itself. I'm pretty sure it isn't." He was talking this through, now he'd got himself going again, very slowly and thoughtfully. More to himself, no doubt, than to either of them. "It doesn't happen until afterward. Fighting is never fun for me. You'd think I'd like it more, because I know I'm pretty good at it. I've always been pretty good at it. But I always get really scared and really pissed. I always think my luck's gonna run out and I'm gonna die. I've been in so many firefights and shit and I've always come through without a scratch. I know my odds keep getting worse and worse. Nobody's luck holds forever. So I always get scared and then I get pissed about it, too. I always feel like I'm gonna throw up, until the battle's done. So far I never have. Lots of guys puke afterward, even if they feel fine during the shooting. But I don't. Somehow my stomach settles itself down real fast, once I'm out of danger, like flipping a switch. But then I always get enormous wood. Takes forever to go away." "I get the same itch," Collin said, "I don't bone up, but I get the same itch. I figure that's pretty common. At least for men. Is it different for women, Miss Croft?" It wasn't, actually. Not for her it wasn't. But she kept curious tidbit this to herself. "Is she asleep, Grief? I can't tell. Can you tell, over there?" "Just leave her be, man. Let her think her thoughts." "Yeah. Good. You're right. Yeah. You know what it is? It's affirmation. What you and me were just discussing, I mean. It's an affirmation of life. Of just being alive." "Yeah. I suppose it is." "Plus, surviving shit makes you feel bad ass, doesn't it? Like, 'Fuck yeah! I'm awesome!' I could be dead now, but I ain't. 'Cause I'm too bad ass to die. That's a pretty sexy feeling. Bein' a badass is pretty damn sexy. So then you naturally wanna spread it around. Share your awesomeness with the world around you. It's like a duty, almost, isn't it? Otherwise all this awesomeness of yours is just gonna gradually fade and go to waste. And that's no good. You're squandering it, if you let that happen. You might as well have just fuckin' died." Grief laughed—a rumble like a motorcycle engine. Lara suddenly sat up and stretched. "Did we wake you?" Grief said, "Sorry." "It's fine," Lara said, "It doesn't matter. I'm not sleepy. I feel a little ... I need a better wash, I think. I think I'll go to the river and have another wash. I feel itchy. My skin, I mean. I think perhaps I'll go and take a swim. Cool off and try to tire myself out. How's that sound?" She got up and walked away from the fire, pulling her top off over her head as she went. Perhaps, even with her back to them, she should have waited until she was further away out of view before she did that. But she didn't. 2. She wondered just what the Hell she was doing. What had got into her? But fuck that—there was no mystery to it, if she was honest with herself. It was everything the men had been saying. Everything they said was absolutely true. Every part of it. Still, one could exercise restraint. One could acknowledge these instinctual impulses without necessarily allowing oneself to yield to them. Was she actually going to let herself do this? Well, considering she'd just finished removing the rest of her clothing, and waded into the river, it seemed that she was. The water was nice. Not too cold, not too deep. But not too shallow either. A stronger current than she expected. But not so strong it was a problem. It felt good, actually, pressing against her, the constant movement over her skin. Not exactly the massage jets in a hot tub—it was subtler than that. But subtlety was good. Except one could be too subtle. That was the danger, with subtlety. People had to be bright enough not to miss your implications. How much time had passed? Not a lot yet. But some. And nothing was happening. She might end up just having herself a little private swim, after all. The guys might not have got the message. She wasn't particularly explicit with them. She shouldn't have needed to be, if either of them had any sense. But maybe neither of them did. Not enough, anyhow. Many men didn't. Oftentimes it seemed that not one single man on the entire planet was perceptive enough to reliably find his own arse in a dark room with both his hands. And the river was easing her some, all on its own. Cooling her down, quieting the urges. Mostly. She still felt randy, but not so bad as before. Sex would be nice ... but she no longer felt like she needed it. The itch wasn't gonna drive her crazy, if she didn't get it scratched. Fine, then. Their loss. No sweat. It was disappointing, but that's life for you. But then she heard footsteps, behind her. When she turned—crouching to keep most of herself below the waterline—she saw it was Collin, on the shore, right next to her little pile of things. He still had his shorts on, and his cap. But when she looked at him and raised an eyebrow like Spock on Star Trek, he nodded sheepishly and pulled them both off. Almost tripped himself stepping out of the shorts. Would have smacked flat on his face into the water. "You by yourself?" she asked, which was rather idiotic, since it was perfectly plain to see he was. "Grief didn't want to come, as well?" "He wasn't sure he'd be welcome. Either of us. I figured, no harm in going to see. But Grief was afraid you'd take it badly. Didn't want to intrude, if that wasn't what you wanted." "I thought I made what I wanted clear enough." "Hey, sure, I thought so too. I'm here, aren't I? But Grief has a point. It's easy enough to misread a girl. Especially on a night like this, after the kind of day we all just had. A chap can fool himself, can't he? See more than what's there, when he's all keyed-up like this." "A chap, in certain circumstances, can also be too damn bloody cautious." "Gosh. Seems you'd rather it had been him than me, eh?" "No, not at all. The invitation was general. It was supposed to be both of you." This wasn't exactly true. It wasn't exactly false, either ... She had indeed desired both to come after her. But if it had only been Grief without Collin, she wouldn't have minded. Lara felt bad, when she realized that. There was nothing specifically wrong with Collin. But all the same, she fancied Grief quite a bit more. At least in this present moment, she did. Neither one was her ideal type, if she even had an ideal type. Sometimes these funny moods take you over. In fact a chief part of the attraction right now with both of them was that she wouldn't normally go for either one. Somehow she'd got turned on by these two men that shouldn't be able to turn her on. But not really by the men themselves. What she liked was that she didn't like them. That fact in and of itself. Yes, it didn't make any sense—but that had become the most arousing part. The complete overall wrongness of this whole entire dynamic, tonight. It might have been almost anybody. Any men that were here with her on this spot—provided, that is, they'd just gone through what they'd all just gone through, together. That fucking awful battle with all those awful fucking mummies. "Are you coming in, Collin? Or do you just wanna stand there and stare at me?" "Well, um, I was just wondering ... Would you like me to hustle back and fetch Grief? I can, if you like. If you prefer. Whatever's gonna make you happiest." Good of him to offer. And of course it must have been disheartening, when she turned all grouchy on him. "Yes. I believe I would prefer that, if you'd be so good." He was disappointed. He didn't manage to conceal it. He must have hoped making the offer would be enough to impress her, by itself. Well, he shouldn't have said anything if he couldn't handle following through. But she saw him take a breath and get his shit together. This was how it had to be. "All right then, Miss Croft," he said, "Hang on. Won't be a moment." He bent for his shorts, but then realized that was stupid and let them lie. And then he fucked off ... She started to straighten out on her back, with the intention of spreading herself out and floating like that on the surface, face up to the sky—and not just her face. She imagined this would make quite a spectacular sight, under the moonlight, for the men when they arrived. But Collin was by himself again when he came pattering back. And he'd only been gone a few moments. "That was rather fast," Lara said, "Wouldn't he come? What's his problem now?" "Actually I didn't speak to him just yet. I didn't go all the way back to the fire. I had a thought, you see. It's a request, actually. I'd like to make a request. Feel free to say no." "What is it?" He rattled it out at quite a clip: "Just wondered if you might allow a chap a turn on his own, before we bring over the other guy. It's just you see I have to tell you I'm not used to ... I mean ... Well, hell. The thing is, I'm just not very sure I'd, um, perform as good as I'd like, with another fellow on hand looking over my shoulder or whatever, as I'm going to work, or however you want to put it. I'm concerned it might throw off my stroke, so to speak. Just since I'm not experienced in that kind of thing." "You're not comfortable with a threesome?" "It's not something I've ever taken part in, is all. Being naked in front of another fellow, it will make me feel weird. I'm sorry if that sounds childish." "I'm afraid it does. You don't have to suck his cock or anything, Collin. Unless you happen to decide you feel like it. Could that perhaps be what you're afraid of?" He didn't respond to that jibe. "I know there are plenty of chaps who can have it off in any setting, a church or a checkout line, regardless how many other fuckers happen to be standing around. The more the merrier, for men like that. Believe it or not, I wish I could be that way—I even have fantasies about it—but I'm not. I guess I'm too bashful. I'm sorry." She tried to help. "You've no reason to feel bashful, Collin. You're fine, I assure you." "I appreciate the sentiment. I wish it were that easy. Look, I see how it is. It's fine. I'll go fetch Grief for you like you want. Since I'll have the camp to myself, I can have a good wank without bothering anybody or anybody bothering me. One word of warning—I get noisy, when I get going. So don't freak out if you hear me give a holler. But I imagine you and Grief will be too occupied to notice." And just like that, before she could think of anything to say back to him, he fucked off again. She tried to call him back, but he didn't hear, or pretended not to. God, what was up with everything? Whole stupid world seemed determined to make her feel like the ultimate heel today. 3. And now finally Grief had showed up. He took his sweet time about it, for whatever reason. Felt like another hour had gone by. Lara had been right on the edge of giving up on him. She'd just walked out of the river, and was wringing out her trademark braid in front of her with both hands—a lengthy, tedious chore—when he appeared at last out of the trees in front of her. Unlike Collin, he'd undressed completely before he left their camp. They were both bare, from top to bottom. Now they stood looking each other over. Amazing, what a difference it makes. How changed a person is, without any clothes on. They don't seem like themselves—they've turned into somebody else. But this other self—their naked self—is their true form. Their natural state, undisguised. All the rest we put on is artificial. All the rest is artifice. The body underneath is who we are. There's something awesome about that. But also at the same time it's dreadful. Limiting. And it's largely so arbitrary, in every aspect. What you got and what you don't. Whether it works or whether it doesn't. If you got your shit together, you work hard to take care of it. You bust your ass, as the yanks say. But there's only so much anyone can do. So much depends on what you start with. And that depends on blind luck, more than anything else. Fairness had nothing to do with it. Neither does virtue. You're hot or you're not. We can fuss all day about how pointless that is, or ought to be. All the harm we do to each other and to ourselves, because of that bullshit. Torturing ourselves over such strict exclusive standards. We ought to know better. Definitely. But it doesn't change the facts. Either you're hot or you're not. Some people got it goin' on—and everybody else just fucking doesn't, the poor schmucks. They have to muddle along as best as they can. Lara knew she was blessed, in that regard. No sense pretending she wasn't. Her body was just about as perfect as a woman's body could be, and she took pride in it, and she was grateful for it—and she busted her ass to keep it that way. She would have hated to be otherwise. But she resented it, too. She hated how important it was to her, and to everybody else—looking this good. It shouldn't be as big a deal as it was. But it was. She couldn't deny that it was. Her fucking looks, her sex appeal. That stuff wasn't supposed to define her. She tried so hard to make herself more than that. To live and to strive for greater things. More lasting, more substantial things. Had she succeeded? She thought she had. She hoped she had. She would always keep trying. But she could never quite leave the other shit behind, either. She could never quite move beyond the demands of her body and her beauty as much as she wanted, as much as she should. She wanted to be the kind of person that didn't care what they looked like, because it didn't matter. Not really, not in the end. It wasn't important. Health was important—but beauty was just a surface thing. Nice to have, while it lasted, if you were lucky enough to have it. But it was an extra. It was trivial and transitory. She didn't need to be as hot as she was, to do what she did—to be what she was. Except that wasn't really true. She wished it was, but it wasn't. Not for the rest of the world, nor even for herself. Lara Croft wouldn't be Lara Croft without this ultra-hot body of hers. Without her aggressive ostentatious sex appeal. It owned her more than she owned it, no matter what she told herself. Lara Croft: After a Battle The way she dressed, the way she showed herself off, most of the time—the skimpy tops and the ultra-short shorts—she wanted to believe she did that because it was functional, primarily, for the life she led, but also obviously she was making a specific statement, at the same time. That it didn't matter, or it shouldn't matter. That she didn't care one way or the other, what you saw or what you thought, when you looked at her. But that whole idea didn't really hold up to scrutiny very well, did it? Not like she wished it did. Her statement could get misread. People could ascribe a whole bunch of other nastier implications to her fashion choices. And they did, all the fucking time. There's nothing wrong with looking good, though. And it isn't wrong to enjoy it, either, or it shouldn't be. So long as it's not all that defines you, not all the time. Right? That was right, wasn't it? Most people, when they stand bare naked in front of another person, they get at least a little nervous, at least for a while. Because they're afraid they don't look good enough, and the other person will look down on them for it. You might not expect it, but Lara Croft got nervous too, but for the opposite reason. She got embarrassed with her body for looking too good. Too perfect. It made her afraid of seeming shallow or arrogant. Too body conscious, too proud. Too sexual. Like she was just a soulless fitness freak—and she is a fitness freak, to some extent, but that's not all she is. It's not the end-all be-all of her existence. She has plenty of other grander obsessions. But when she's naked, that's all people see. Not just a gorgeous body—it becomes an outright provocation. It makes it so partners always feel they have to prove something, every time. Both to her and to themselves. Or else they panic and run away altogether, like Collin just had. No one can ever just be with her—just relax and enjoy themselves. She's too much a challenge. Like climbing a mountain. Like they have to conquer her. And in the end all they can accomplish is exhausting themselves, and her as well, trying too hard to do that shit. She isn't even sure how that would work. What that would be. What is it they think they have to do? Whatever is supposed happen, it never seems to. Even when it's good, even when they make her come, it's still never enough. She can always tell afterwards. They always feel they failed. They didn't last long enough. They didn't make it good enough. It makes them hate themselves, and it makes them hate her. She can always tell, just looking at their faces. They usually try to hide it. Except for some that don't bother. There are times she wants to give up on the whole business. But she's got used to it being like this, more or less. She knew it would be the same with Grief. It was what it was. You play the cards you're dealt. There's nothing else. Good Grief was a big boy, in every sense. His musculature wasn't sculpted, though, like a body-builder. He was just thick, all around. Like a walking coffee-colored hill, or no—like a tree. Or maybe a hill with a leafless tree trunk on the front side of it. Slanted to point directly at her. Jesus, it was the length of her forearm, and just about as thick. He had not been overstating it ... It was indeed enormous wood. She almost had to laugh. But he would not have taken that well, and she managed to control herself and hold it in until the feeling dissipated. The look on his face was funny. He looked rather sullen. Like she was picking on him or something. It was an expression she saw all too often, in these sorts of situations. If anybody had the right to look sullen it was her. She was one with a threatening weapon pointed at her. She waited for him to say something, or do something. He didn't. He was leaving it all up to her. Well, sure. Fine then. She moved closer and reached out quick and took hold of him. Gave the thing a squeeze. It made him gasp and retreat a step or two. She moved with him, step for step, not letting go. But she didn't squeeze him anymore. Just held on to him, but with as gentle a clutch as possible. "Easy there," he said. "I don't wanna embarrass myself. Let's go easy. I'm too close. I'm too close to the edge." "It's fine," she said, "Don't worry about it. I understand. Whatever happens, it's fine." She started to bend down at it, but he stopped her. "Whoa, whoa. That'll kill me. I won't be able to hold back." "You don't have to. Don't worry about it." "No, I'll go off too quick. I don't wanna embarrass myself." "You won't. I know you're keyed up. I'm keyed up too, just as much. That's why this has started. Just go with it. Just let go. It's fine if you come. Let it take the edge off. I'll get it going again. I'm not worried about that." "But it's embarrassing. Like a schoolboy. I ain't no kid anymore." "It's fine. I keep telling you. It's fine." "Here." He held something out to her. She didn't realize what it was until she took it. Thought at first it was a sugar packet, believe it or not. Why was he giving her a sugar packet? But it was a condom, of course. He'd brought a condom with him. He'd been holding it in his hand, all this time. She was rather touched. "Will you put it on for me?" he asked, "I'm no good at putting the damn things on." "All right," she said, and tore it open. Using her teeth, the way she knew men liked to see. But then the silly thing broke right away, as she was rolling it over him. That always happened to her. The stupid things always just busted. But better like this, when she was still putting it on, than inside her. That was the worst. Picking the bits of it out of her cunt. "Shit," Grief said. "Well, shit. I don't have any more." She flung the shreds aside. "Don't worry about it. I'm protected. And I hate those things anyway. I don't like the feel." "I don't like the feel either. But that was kind of the point. It was gonna help me. Slow me down." "Good Grief!" she exclaimed. "And yes, I've been waiting for the opportunity to say that all day. But what's the point in me fucking you if you can't let yourself feel it?" "'Cause I'll feel it too strong. I won't be able to handle it." "Handling it isn't what I want. Lay down now. On your back. I'm gonna ride you. I'm gonna get you off. Because I want to. Clear? Don't try to hold back. I don't want you holding back." "But I want you to enjoy it too. You won't enjoy it if I finish too quick." "Yes I will. It's true I won't come but I'll enjoy it anyway. Just getting you off. That's enough for right now. We'll worry about my orgasm next time. Provided you don't pass out on me." "I'll try my best. Can't make no promises." "If you pass out, I'll just have to slap the shit out of you, to wake you back up." "Fair enough. Whatever it takes. But I still might not be able to go again. I'm not good at going two times in a row." "Well, it still won't bring the world to an end. You've got a tongue, haven't you? Ten fingers, as well. I'm sure if need be, if you just put your mind to it, you can figure something out for us." He'd got down on the ground like she wanted. She stepped astride him and lowered herself into a crouch, to fit his wood against her cleft. "Oh God," he said, the moment they had established a point of contact down there, "Oh Jesus." She set her teeth and lowered herself on to him. On to it. Taking it in. Even as wet as she was, it didn't slide in easy. It was a serious stretch and it was a serious strain. She had to push herself—she had to really seriously bear the fuck down, to get that damnable thing squeezed up inside there ... "Christ," Grief said. Her sentiment exactly. She would have said the exact same thing, if she were physically capable of speech. At that precise moment, she no longer was. She had known it would be intense, but still. This was an intense intensity. There's intense, and then there was intense. This was the second kind. She couldn't take it all in, in one go. Not with just the first big plunge. She had to work it in, in careful gradual stages. Ease back off and sink back down ... Ease back up and sink back down, but a little further that time, another inch or so ... And again, now. Progress, progress ... One-two-three and one-two-three and one-two-three and ... And then it popped. Well, of course. It was what she expected. She didn't mind. Actually he lasted longer than either of them thought he would. It had only been a minute or so—but a minute or two is still better than a second or two. And when she looked down at it, she saw Grief had climaxed before she'd got him more than two thirds into her. Well, maybe three quarters. She thought he really had passed out. But no. Turned out he was only fooling with her. He stopped her before she could hit him. "Only playin'." "Bastard. Fucker." "Yes, ma'am." 4. She had thought he'd be done already ... She thought she'd find him snoozing. But Collin was still wide awake and wanking, when she got back to the campfire. Lara crept up carefully behind him. He was doing it to himself slow, which she wouldn't have predicted. She would have guessed he'd tear away at the thing in a spastic fury. The look on his face was so philosophical. Not the kind of expression you'd ever expect a guy like him to have, under any circumstances. And the comical contrast with his ongoing "handiwork" was just delicious. She had to clap a hand over her mouth, to stifle her giggles. Possibly he'd got himself off already and this was his second round. Which was why he was taking it easier. Or was that an unjust assumption? She saw some crumpled-up jungle leaves beside him—had he used the things to clean himself of an earlier mess? Or had those already been there? Jungle leaves and bits of leaves large and small were scattered all over the place by the hundreds, in various states of decay. But no others were wadded up into tight little balls like that, far as she could see. It was certainly suggestive, wasn't it? And mercenaries don't carry tissues around, do they? Violates the Tough Guy aesthetic. She knelt beside him and nudged his bobbing shoulder. "Boo," she whispered. That made him jump pretty damn good. "Jesus, Lara!" She swatted his hand off his junk, replacing it with her own. "Here now. How about I take over for you?" "What? What? Jesus! Oh! Gosh! Where's Grief? What happened to Grief?" "He's still at the river, cleaning up. I asked him to hang back a while." "You did?" "I did. Now let's see here. Let's see how you do." She swung herself around on top of him. Unlike Grief, she was able to slip him straight in without any fussing. He was a nice solid fit. The Godzilla experience, or whatever you want to call it, has its merits. Sometimes a girl wants to push the envelope. But not every time. There's much to be said for regular dimensions. Size matters, but not like men believe. Too damn big is as bad as too tiny. What a girl wants is the right size. The normal average length evolved that way for a reason. Don't believe the porn industry. Normal average length cocks work much better and see much more play, in the real world. "Lara! I mean—Miss Croft! Oh Jesus! Oh shit! Oh! Ohhoohh!" Just as he'd told her, he was quite a noisy partner. He really went crazy, when the pleasure took hold of him. But Lara didn't mind. In fact she enjoyed hearing him like that. It was rewarding. This was a pity-fuck, because she felt bad for dissing the guy earlier. And because she knew taking care of him would be quick and easy. Five extra minutes to clear her conscience, now she and Grief had got done. But she got into things more than she thought she would, thanks to how vocal Collin was. It's nice to be appreciated. And she'd probably never had a partner express his or her appreciation quite as dramatically and as explosively as Collin did. It got more and more trippy for her as it went on. Almost made her feel what he was feeling, like a psychic bond. So when she got him off, she got off too. But it was like they shared the same orgasm—and it was his, not one of hers. It didn't feel like they normally felt, not at all—she felt what it was like to ejaculate. Or at least she imagined she did. It wasn't the same as squirting. She did that sometimes, but rarely and not then—and the sensations were completely different. More centered. And draining, in a way a woman's climax isn't. A man pours out all his power, when he comes—while a woman's power grows, instead. A woman keeps going, flying higher and higher, time after time. Men blaze out and drop like shooting stars, poor things. Afterwards, she would decide this whole psychic connection thing was an illusion. A hallucination, rather—the mind can fly off all sorts of funny directions, during sex. She'd fucked three or four times in a row, that night. Your brain gets so flooded with pleasure chemicals, those endorphin things or whatever the fuckers are called ... But in any case, real or imagined, it was a blast, while it lasted. Quite a mind-bender. Vivid and weird and totally convincing, in those few brief burning moments. 5. Collin asked, "Did that really happen?" Just like he had at the beginning, hadn't he? He waited, like before, but again nobody was going to answer him. "Did that really happen?" he asked again, "Or did I just the dream the whole thing, just now?" Grief sighed. (He had rejoined them five minutes ago.) Lara—her eyelids heavy, quite muzzy in the head now, properly sleepy at last—shushed them both.