Things go distant and… and curved. The lines that make up the corners of the room bend into circles, oscillate into sine waves, and he stares, fascinated, trying to identify the frequency.
"Oh dear, perhaps I gave you a little too much," comes a voice, and then his head is moved by a hand like fire cupping his chin. The frequency disappears, and he sees a face instead.
The name bubbles up through the sticky sweet thickness of his perceptions, and he wraps his tongue around it, almost tasting something sharp and bitter. “Irene.”
She smiles, runs a finger along his cheekbone, down his neck, and he shudders. “Hello. Not long to talk, I’m afraid. You have something I want.”
He swallows, tries to focus, because her tone has said exactly what she’s looking for, and that’s a problem. Why is it a problem? She’s touching his neck, her hand keeps going down, and it feels like a chemical burn, like the grain of mahogany, like congealed blood on the front of a refrigerator door. His hips move without his input.
"John." He says, the only argument he can think of, and just saying it makes his hands fist in the sheets, because it feels good.
"He won’t mind me borrowing you, just this once. Relax." The sound is either a zipper being pulled or saran wrap being torn, and he gasps as he feels her hand against his skin.