Fallon's Wonderful Machine

Copyright 2014 Maire De Léis

Published by Maire De Léis at Smashwords

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Table of Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

About Maire
De Léis

Other stories
by Maire De Léis

Connect with
Maire De Léis

One

"I have everything I need. I have no more use for
it," where the words. The speaker, Gair McGinn. Fallon McGinn's
grandfather. 'It' a chest. Fallon was too young to understand why
he no longer wanted his chest full of cool metal parts. It became
her treasure. Strange exciting smooth things. Shiny brass.
Stainless steel tubes. A mahogany cover for something. Knobs,
levers, gears, some wrapped in oiled paper.

Every few years she'd take the chest down
from a shelf and lay all the parts out on the floor or a desk. Sit
and look at them. Turn this part this way and that. A lot of
engineering had gone into each part. After Gair died she thought
about where they had come from. Had he made them? Collected them
from dusty antique stores? Ordered mechanics and metalworkers
around the county, maybe the whole island, to build such and such a
part to these exact specifications? And when she was done she would
take care to wrap them in their oiled paper or put them in their
little wooden boxes. Set everything back in the chest just so.
Replace oil and paper as needed. Because there was one thing she
valued as much as she valued the chest itself. The smell. The
tool-shop in South Mall had the correct oil. Smelled like the oil
from before. And everything was perfect.

All those years that passed. As she grew up,
became a woman with a job and a house and a boyfriend. In all those
years she never asked, 'what is it?'. Not her. Nor her trusted
friends from childhood and on. When her boyfriend Darragh asked
her, seeing it on a shelf in the garage, she had no reply.

"I don't know!" she said, "I never saw it as
a something."

"That's daft. Get someone to look at it. Bet
it's worth a few euro," Darragh said.

"I'm not gonna sell it."

"Whatever. Might be nice to know,
though?"

"I guess," she said. It had been years since
she opened it. She felt disappointed that Darragh hadn't been more
excited about it. Privileged as he was to be let in on her secret.
Not the oohs and wows from her childhood. No young faces lit up in
reflected torchlight.

She snapped the lid down and went back to
look for the shears.

That night Fallon dreamt of Gair. Not the
man who'd died. No. The legs that bore him were strong and
youthful. Not the frail branches he could barely move on. His
fingers not bent at strange angles, with nails like brown paper
that crumbled every time he tried to perform any task better suited
to a younger man. Her big strong grandfather. And she an adult.

They spoke about the things you speak with
dead people about in dreams. How strange it was that they had put
him in that stupid wooden coffin. Should have made sure he was
dead. They had been sad and cried. How wrong can you be? Another
strange thing was how they could fly now. Before Gair died they
never flew. But now it was common. Everyone did. On her antique
table in her living room stood a machine. Fully assembled, from the
parts in her chest.

The next day Fallon got the chest out of the
garage and set it on her living room table. And she asked, to the
room, to herself. To her grandfather:

"What is it?"

The question her starting point. The
assembly was difficult. She was no mechanic. So many parts she
didn't know what did. So many that fit into one another. From her
dream she knew that the chest was part of the machine. Not just
storage. Working from there she got the frame put together. That
made it easier. She pondered. She theorised and tested theories.
She put a part in its place, then removed it from there, because
no, it wasn't that part's place at all, but this one. But how could
that be?

How patient was Fallon, how single-minded!
One day, a forgotten and stained glass of white wine forgotten on
the table, one day at last, the final piece fell into place. The
machine was completed.

And Fallon asked again. Knowing that she'd
never get an answer. Not from the room, or Gair. And least of all
from herself. But still she asked:

"What is it?"

Two

Darragh surprised her that evening. There were
several things. First, he texted her. Plain language confirmed that
he was coming over at half seven. She had complained. His texts
were impossible to read. He'd finally gotten the message. The text
came in plenty of time. Instead of his usual call or message that
he was on his way.

Another: he was well-dressed. He smelled of
the aftershave she'd picked out for him on their trip to Berlin.
And - he brought flowers. A small but tastefully selected bunch.
Modest. Suitable for their budget. He was on time of course.
Darragh was always on time. No matter about his five-o-clock
shadow. No matter if he didn't have time to put on a jacket or
change into the trousers without the ketchup stain. He loved those
trousers. No, being on time was Darragh's way of being
dependable.

Of course he was the one. Fairy tale ending.
Perfect and she loved every detail about it. That didn't mean that
sometimes in her mind he was better dressed and smelled of nice
aftershave. Or maybe in her thoughts he sometimes brought her
flowers. Maybe he had finally learnt how to tie his tie
straight.

The Darragh that came through the door and
kissed her, maybe there was one thing, one tiny detail different
than her mind's picture. But you know what? It's cute how his knot
is always crooked. She wouldn't even try to straighten it. Her man
was so sweet.

"Well, hello there, handsome man of mine,"
she said between kisses.

"Hello yourself, gorgeous," Darragh said, in
those same pauses.

There was even a fifth surprise. When he
opened his beer and sat down on the sofa, he held the cap in his
hand for a few moments. Looking for somewhere to put it. Instead of
flinging it onto her glass table he stuck it in his pocket. Fallon
wondered why she'd bought such an expensive table. She was
terrified of scratching it. After months she'd found
semi-transparent straw mats they could set their drinks and snacks
on.

Reliable Darragh. Before they were a couple
he hadn't been. Very precise. Careful about certain aspects of his
life. Like taking care of what he ate and his body. Work. But it
had taken him a while to realise that Fallon was as important as
those things. And he had moved her from wherever he had her
compartmentalised. Into the important drawer, where things were
serious. Better cared for.

Drawbacks? Hardly. He always followed
through. For good or bad. Berlin had been great. They had been to
the zoos and the museums and the bridges and the buildings. Taken
the photos that go with them. Laughing. Smiling. Hugging a
policeman and getting licked in the face by a giraffe. Spent a day
in their hotel room and made love. Walked along the Spree eating
Berliners. Looked into each other's eyes over candlelit tables with
red wine fuelling the love in their bellies. All according to
Darragh's schedule. Every destination on the hour. Every lazy
loving day in his planner or in his mind.

That's why his sixth surprise was so
welcome. With all her Irish hospitality she welcomed it.

In a word: impulsiveness. But that won't do.
We'll need more! Here:

He took her hand as she was about to head
back into the kitchen. Manoeuvred her easily into his lap.

"And where are you going?" he asked. Kissed
her.

"Oh!" Fallon said. Or laughed. There was
something about the kiss. And those that followed. Passion. Warmth.
Like he was exploring her anew. Both gentle and with passion. Hard
and restrained. It turned her on.

His arm around her waist. His lips soft,
moistened by touching hers. Kissing her neck, her shoulders,
without breaking contact with the skin. Pushed her sweater down her
shoulder to move further. To find more skin to touch. Light then
passionate. Greed then tenderness. His hand on her hip. Moving with
that same gentleness. Then grabbing handfuls of her thigh.
Releasing it slowly. Let it slide out of his hand. Every movement
one of desire. No. Of lust.

And her skin underneath her jeans, her bared
shoulders, longed for that touch. In between the buttons on his
shirt her fingers found his skin. Soft fuzzy fur on his stomach.
Underneath his ribcage where the skin was the softest. She moved
upwards. Undoing buttons. Here he was harder. Muscle more defined.
Hair rougher. Except where it met in the middle like small rocky
streams meeting to form a gentler, calmer river.

She too was greedy. She tore his shirt open
and ran her hands up and down his ribcage. Around him. The
landscape on his back. His spine. The shoulder blades moving back
and forth as his hands and arms and neck and head was all over
her.

He lay her gently down on the sofa. They
helped each other out of shirts and sweaters. No thinking. No
fiddling with buttons. No stuck zippers, no tie-knot too tight.
Only desire to get at the skin underneath. See it. Smell it. Most
of all touch it. His arms. Oh, his arms. The finest of all. She
loved holding her hand atop his forearm and feel the muscles move.
Tighten and relax while his fingers mirrored the movements on her
body.

She loved seeing the desire in his eyes when
he admired her breasts. That moment before he touched. A gourmet
before a meal. Made her feel desired. Safe. Exposed yes. But with
this man who admired her body so, safe.

In his neck. His nape and his back. Fallon
touched the muscles that were doing these things to her. The parts
of the machine that kissed her between her breasts. Touched them
with his lips. So smooth the movements when his hands came into the
fray. And, and, oh. Here was a muscle she couldn't feel. His
tongue. Flicking across her nipples. His lips closing around them
as they stiffened. Rose up into that moist cavern. Oh yes. He was
gentle. Careful. Way too much so. She pressed her chest up against
him. Rolled her shoulders back. Held him tight. Here, now. Just
here, just now. It didn't matter what happened next. The armrest
pressing into the back of her head didn't matter. Didn't matter
that Darragh could only breathe through his nose. Just this moment.
Just this nearness. That was it. Her and her man and his aftershave
and his neck muscles and his mouth engulfing her nipple. Pressed
hard into the flesh.

Had she thought he was immobile? Did she
think she could keep him from moving, keep him from pleasing her
even more? No. His arm freed, opened her jeans. Pulled them down
along with her underwear down to her knees. Now that hand between
her thighs. Grabbing, stroking, caressing. Almost pinching. Then
gentle again. Fallon held the arm. Not guiding it. Just feeling it
move. Admired how advanced every movement was. How beautiful the
machinations that allowed them to happen.

No words now. She wanted him near and he was
near. She wanted to be touched and he touched. To be teased with a
finger on either side of her pussy and she was teased. Closer and
closer she wanted him and closer he came. Touch it! Touch it hard.
Press your hand up against me. Relax. Take your hand away and taste
it. Look me in the eye and taste it. Touch me again. Feel how wet
I've gotten from watching that. My juices flow freely onto your
hand. Part me. Find your way inside.

Two fingers slid into her pussy. His thumb
remained on duty outside. Circling. Not touching her clit. Explored
her inside. Pushed and pressed and prodded and stretched. Found her
ready. Now the thumb touched. That magical spot. Yes. Right there.
Right there!

A bolt of lightning. Forked into so many
small ones. Shot through her body in all directions. And one hand
there. Pushing her further and further into the place where
everything becomes unfocused. Everything but your lover's eyes go
fuzzy. Slow-moving coloured cloud. His other hand opened his
trousers. Letting his cock out at last. Breathe. Bounce and twitch
as his muscles tightened and relaxed. Seeing him like this. So
ready for her. So turned on by her. The final piece. The picture
now complete. Everything perfect.