The first firework thrust into the night sky on a pillar of fire and smoke and exploded in an orgasm of orange light. Following on, dozens more, screaming and gasping through the air, spurting streamers of bright colour across the darkness, an onslaught of noise and flashing fire.
Siri stood closely behind me as I bent over the controls, my fingers poised ready to terminate the program if a single firework should ignite or explode out of the proper sequence. He cleared his throat. "Everything running smoothly, Filo?"
"Yes, boss."
"Great. Excellent. Good job, girl, yet again." He tapped me gently on the shoulder, his hand lingering for a moment longer than necessary, and then moved away.
There was a big crowd, packed tightly into the narrow confines of the town square. Mostly us kakari, but other species as well: a group of huge dark shadow-eaters sat hunched ponderously in a far corner, looking easily over the heads of the smaller kakari, and I could see the small long-tailed forms of trieffi dashing excitedly along the front of the crowd, occasionally being persuaded back behind the safety barrier by the marshals. On top of the blockish, brightly painted concrete buildings framing the square perched brek'bûr, brown fur under black leathery wings, sulking loudly about the loud exploding things filling their sky and pretending unconvincing disinterest.
Only one brek'bûr watched with undisguised rapt awe and that was Beni, my colleague and friend, his head thrown back to face the sky, his mouth slightly open displaying rows of pointed white teeth, every brief flash and flower of exploding colour reflected in his huge unblinking black eyes. Beni was difficult to mistake for other brek'bûr. Raised by kakari, he didn't just bear a kakari name, he dressed like one. Now his furred form was swathed in the same fire-resistant orange cloth we all had to wear, from which protruded only his long-eared head, his strong legs and slender arms, his broad fanned tail and his great folded wings; but even away from work, I'd never once seen him follow the brek'bûr fashion of nudity.
Beni had seemed impossibly strange when I'd first met him, but after a year working together I had become accustomed to him, and at times even forgot he wasn't one of us. As my eyes flicked from him to my other colleague Kako, standing beside him, I was struck by how strange we kakari must look to the brek'bûr, with our grey hairless bodies, our tailless upright posture, our small green eyes, our long clawless fingers.
Remembering my responsibility, I turned my attention back to the fireworks. Catherine wheels spun on slender metal frames, intricate wheels within wheels producing strange organic-looking windmills of fire, making the crowd gasp. Things were reaching a climax now. As the last Catherine wheel sizzled to a standstill, the final thunderous volley of rockets was launched into the air, exploding in deafening blasts which scattered the whole sky with colours: first brilliant red and blue, then sizzling orange and yellow, finally sparkling green and white. A gleaming forest of light seemed for a moment to cast its canopy over the whole town, illuminating the delighted faces of the crowd as it sprouted and blossomed across the sky, until at last there was silence, and nothing but pale leaves of smoke drifting down from the heavens.
* * *
There was work to be done. As the crowds dispersed we moved to gather up long lengths of wire, countless igniters, supports and safety guards. Carefully, thoroughly, checking for misfired or unexploded fireworks.
Siri watched over us as we worked, officiously but not unkindly, occasionally offering polite direction and making notes on his official pad. He was tall, almost as tall as us women, and wore a small, square-lensed pair of glasses, an archaic affectation on a world where corrective surgery was both effective and free. He carried about with him an unrufflable neatness; he may have been wearing the same one-piece orange coat as Kako and I, but somehow he wore it in a way that made it seem smart, even formal. Even his crests, the three low webbed extrusions which swept back across his head from just above his eyes and marked him as a male, seemed somehow arranged.
He interrupted me as I worked. "Filo. Could I possibly see you in my office for a minute?" I left Kako and Beni to finish up and followed.
Siri's "office" was his home and means of transport, the same model of utilitarian grey metal travel cabin we each lived in. Inside was the same driving seat, the same tiny bed, the same little table and chair and miniature kitchen, but absolutely not the same chaotic untidiness which dominated my own. Not even a single postcard or knick-knack offered its personality to the room, giving it an anonymity so severe as to be distinctive. As I entered I turned to close the door, and lock it, and as I did so Siri stepped close behind me and slipped an arm around my waist.
It wasn't illegal, under kakari law, to have a relationship with your superior; but it was generally considered inappropriate, and if the company ever heard of it, it would certainly lose us both our jobs. So we kept it a secret. But now, safe in the privacy of the cabin, we relaxed. His long fingers played across my belly, and his other arm came round to rest across my chest. I leant back into him, smiling as he kissed the back of my neck and then breathed in deeply, as though savouring my scent.
"One day soon, girl, we can hold each other whenever we want, no more of this sordid secrecy." He kissed me again, a long, gentle, tickling kiss on the side of my neck.
I turned in his arms to face him, reaching around his shoulders to embrace him, and as I did so I noticed his crests, standing slightly erect and tinged red. It was hard for men to hide their lust in public; I could only assume Siri managed it by a colossal effort of self control.
Reaching up a hand, he carefully removed the pair of glasses, folded them and deposited them on the little table next to where we stood. He straightened himself and blinked, regarding me critically, and then as though I had met his approval pulled me to him and kissed me.
Siri always came across as a quiet, cautious, reserved man. His kiss was nothing like that. His kiss was hungry: no gentle meeting of lips but an insistent onslaught that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with raw animal lust. I could never have defended my resolve against a kiss like that had I tried. I wasn't trying and I felt myself melt inside, pooling down from my mouth into my groin.
We broke apart, panting. I felt lit up with lust; all the restrained passion and physical desire, fuelled by a day of insistent and penetrating thoughts about Siri, set free at last. And from the look of his crests, now standing proud and flushed a brilliant scarlet, I could tell he was as aroused as I.
We both shrugged out of our coats, me flinging the thick orange fabric carelessly to one side, he dropping his neatly over a nearby hook. Now we both stood in the nearly ubiquitous unisex kakari casual dress: nothing but a simple knee-length sarong, knotted around the waist.
Siri didn't like to talk, but he liked to be touched. After kissing again, I ran a hand over his crests, pressing them down and letting them spring back up, then down the smooth surface of his skull, around the sharp line of his jaw, and onto his neck. He stretched back his head to let me better run my fingers over the taut curve of his throat, murmuring softly as I stroked the sensitive flesh.
As I brushed the bony slant of his shoulders he moved his hands to rest gently on my hips. I felt his heartbeat as I passed down his broad flat chest, its rhythm fast but steady, and then my hands were at his waist, pausing to appreciate the jut of his hips, the curve of his back, before sliding irresistibly downwards inside the soft white cloth of his sarong, coming to rest on the firm cushion of his buttock and squeezing. He twitched very slightly in response.
The willpower needed to move slowly had deserted me. Fumbling with the material of his sarong I ripped it off him, then at last let my hands flow over the smooth softness of his groin, grey flesh dappled with white and black, then down to touch the rumpled potency of his testes, and finally sliding along the proud grey shaft of his cock, relishing its solidity, its slippery wetness, its readiness.
I looked up to meet his bright green eyes staring deep into my own. He was breathing deeply, burning lust and intent written in every feature. I allowed him to push me backwards with a hand on my chest, guiding me until I stood with my back flush against the wall, the smooth hard surface chill against my skin.
He kissed me again, even more insistent and insatiable than before. And as he did so, his hands worked my sarong, carefully unknotting the fabric from my waist and sliding it free, exposing me to him.
Pulling himself away from the kiss, he looked down to regard me. With a single finger he caressed me between my legs, running it gently around my opening, sending a pleasant tickling tingle rippling up me. And then, ever so carefully, he pushed the tip between the lips, just a little way, making me shiver in anticipation. It was there for just a second before he withdrew it, and brought it to his lips to suck thoughtfully
Suddenly his hands were back on my hips, gripping firmly. No more foreplay. Never more than a few minutes, with Siri. He stood pressed against me, pinning me to the wall, I could feel his cock as it came to rest wetly between my legs. We kissed again; intense, uncompromising; and as we kissed I reached down a hand and guided him into me, the whole length sliding smoothly in, filling me, making me shake and gasp.
He adjusted his position only slightly, and then he began, pulling back his hips and thrusting himself back into me, and again, and again, each thrust boring into me deeply, hammering me against the wall, sending jolts of pleasure up my spine. I began to count the thrusts in my head.
One, two, three
...
His pace was completely steady, not too fast, not torturously slow.
Ten, eleven, twelve
...
Siri was a machine. He took seventy-five or sometimes seventy-six thrusts to reach an orgasm, and I relished every one of them.
Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five
...
He didn't gasp, or grimace, or grin, but just stared down at his thrusting pelvis with a frown of absolute concentration.
Thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six
