Comet Quetzalcoatl—technically Comet C-2014/UN271, but called Comet Q because of some inane conspiracy theory connecting it to the gods of the Aztec calendar—curled across half the sky, visible even in the daytime, looking to Lena like the arched eyebrow of a disapproving parent.
Surely the end of the world was at hand.
It meant nothing of course, the comet was just another dead space rock from the Oort Cloud, unfortunate enough to be visiting Earth’s neighborhood at a time when science was suspect and objective truth a distant memory. People believed whatever the fuck they wanted to believe now. So while it wasn’t the comet’s fault, the world was going to end anyway: just a matter of how and when.
Lena lay naked on a plastic lounge chair on the rooftop of a NYC apartment she couldn’t afford, figuring next month’s rent didn’t matter. Her finger idled over her clit, teasing, feeding the moist tingle in her pussy, struggling to keep her rapidly approaching orgasm at bay. Not yet. Ride the plateau. Earn it.
She’d secreted her lounge chair and milk-crate table in the corner, next to the hulking HVAC unit. Her half-smoked joint issued a wispy line of smoke from the ashtray on the crate, hypnotizing her as she played with her pussy lips, keeping the fires banked.
Manhattan burned on the streets below.
Similar blazes dotted the Brooklyn side of the river.
Screams, car crashes, gunshots brayed for her attention.
Her nipples hardened in the night breeze. She felt the first galvanic spark of release in her belly and nurtured it, leaping down the nerve endings of her thighs like water seeking its own level. Ride the plateau. Earn it.
The access door creaked open.
Fuck.
A figure stepped out from beyond the shadows of the door in a performatively non-threatening manner, arms held out to the sides, feet slightly spread.
Lena felt more curious than frightened. Fire engines and car alarms wailed from the streets, flames licked up the Williamsburg Bank Tower across the river: the roof was safer than the rest of the world.
He stepped out from the doorway. The shadow of his cock slithered across the rooftop like a snake.
Lena laughed, even as her finger wandered toward her wet outer lips.
“Take two steps closer and stop,” she told him. He did so, eager as a puppy.
She took a hit of the joint, surveying him theatrically. She slid her finger into her depths with practiced slowness.
The man’s cock jerked, as did its shadow. He moaned; Lena wanted to.
Not yet. Ride the plateau.
“Touch yourself,” she ordered him. She watched him fist his cock enthusiastically. His moan turned to a low growl.
She dipped a second finger inside her wetness and her legs jackknifed together in unexpected spasm. He pumped at his shaft. A moment of mutual masturbation between two strangers, a spark of human connection as a dying world crumbled to ash. That feeling of complete control continued as she asked him to take one step closer, then another; her illusion of control faded as he jerked his cock harder and she realized she could hold back no longer. She sprang from her lounge, grabbed her ass cheeks, displaying herself to him without fear. She thrust hungry fingers back inside her velvet folds. She played to him, a sex kitten, a cum slut. The mask she hid behind felt thrilling.