Re: (After)life: Nel L & Lear L
"Do you convert a lot of them?" Lear wondered how many virgins opened—bloomed—under his sister's guided gaze, plied themselves to her palm. He laughed when she talked about sex being penetration and he just shrugged. "I don't care what it's about, as long as it's sex." Which was true. It didn't have to be his cock in a hole. "And it depends on the person. Sometimes three minutes is enough and I'd rather never fucking see them again. You sound like you actually want to like the people you fuck. That's too much fucking word sometimes. Most times. I don't need to like anyone."
He stretched a little, then scratched under his chin. "Don't fucking ask me." He didn't know what cleaning up meant. "She wasn't going to prostitute herself anymore? I don't know. Something boring. She was a little boring, but it was fine for what it was." He shrugged, tipping his head as Nel played with her camera. "Yeah. Destiny or something, I think this one chick said," was his response about a madam. "Why, are you going to try to get in with them?" His own cool gaze met his sister's, propped up by a grin. "I'll leave you to the fucking hours of running after people, if that's what you like. Rae, for example."
The film was forced forward and Lear could hear it slip through gears. The lens was pointed at him, but then Nel took the camera and walked away. Patiently you could say, the man waited on the sofa, watched the snap of light flare and fizzle on his sister's palm—the very one that plied virgins, he imagined. He glanced up at her as she came back, and he smiled when she said he could do whatever he wanted. If appropriateness didn't matter—he undid the belt on his slacks lazily, and he'd just started to unzip his fly when another pulse seemed to join the fray, this one far enough off that he knew it wasn't in the room.—Lear's attention shifted from his cock and his sister, to the doorway of the studio. "Who's interrupting?"