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It's one of these nights when I can't sleep. I stare
into the dark room, my limbs trembling with stress,
my sanity balancing on the frayed strands of my nerves.|
There's a knock on the door, and I reach for the lock, tired and angry.
Soolin? What does she want? Ah, she claims to have a cure for insomnia. Well, I indulge her, there's nothing else to do. She pours some honey-coloured liquid into a small glass, and tells me to drink it. Whiskey? No, she says, smiling.
Dorian's secret recipe, apparently. Should've guessed.
Now she says something about how I need company, how I need to relax properly, and how I should come to the main bedroom with her. More space, she says.
The drug starts weaving its magic in my body, just as she takes my hand. I've never realised how soft her hands are, how golden her hair...
...the maiden with the golden hair...
I remember childhood stories, mythologies, and somehow the drama fits, somehow the millenia shift, making us characters in a mystery play. I laugh, and it is a happy laugh, acknowledging how stupid and childish this all is, how Romantic, yes--but I can't resist its pull. It's relaxation, just as Soolin says. She holds my hands and looks up, into my eyes. It is then when I realise...
Please, let me hold you, the warmth of June to a man August in both age and mind. I kiss you deep, drinking you in, the caress of your hair over my arm the play of sunshine on skin.
Bending and swaying with my kisses, laughing, you dance me to the bed and open your arms. Lithe and strong, that is what you are, a stalk of grain that's survived through drought and frost, yet untouched by the scythe of autumn.
As I lie down beside you and embrace you, I name you Persephone. For that is who you are: You rise from the dark, burnt soil of Gauda Prime, flowers springing up in your footsteps. Oh, most of these are the dark poppies of gunshot wounds blooming on the chests of your enemies, that is most certain. But they are flowers nevertheless; as are the asphodels of your eyes, the pink roses of your lips, and the darker, adult buds of your nipples.
As I gently lick and mouth those buds to bloom, elation fills me, I feel young again, and as you whisper tenderness into my ear, I dream of being Adonis, over whom Persephone fought Aphrodite herself. Adonis, *me*? I know, laughable, if I'd look in the mirror, but you make me feel as if I *could* be Him, oh, your grace could make us all gods.
Dayna the huntress, dark as the night, the moon glinting in the sickle of her grin; Tarrant the proud stag, the hunter and the hunted; Vila the magpie in a treetop, unseen but seeing all and then chirping his tale to all the birds of the sky.
It must be your perfume that makes my mind wander into old superstition and myth; you once told me Dorian loved to bathe you in the oldest and most precious flower oils. He'd brought them from Earth, refused to say how much he'd paid for them, only told you that they were sacred once, used to anoint idols.
The oils are beside your bed, simple earthenware pots, but neatly arranged and labelled.
"Jasmine"... you whisper, touching some of it to your lips. /Do you want me to kiss it from them?/ I wonder, and bend down to do so, but you shake your head, smiling.
That is what you ask, that is what I do. I sit, cross- legged, on Dorian's bed that's wide enough for a true orgy, and watch the movements of your beautiful body. You are so unabashed in your nakedness, and I wonder if you know that I can see all of your secret places as you turn away from me, and bend over the table upon which the bottles lie.
You weigh your bottles and examine them; I examine the perfect roundness of your buttocks, and weigh my testicles in my hand. They're full, and red, perhaps the sight of your shaven cunt-lips is doing that to me. That little gleam of wetness I can glimpse between them makes my cock grow harder, and I yearn for you to lie down already. Maybe I say it aloud, for you turn and smile, maybe it's just you knowing, as usual, how to lead me by my cock.
Oh! I shouldn't have thought of that, for you are a wicked mind-reader, you harlot; you pour long streams of oil all over my aching cock, whispering "patchouli".
I steal that whisper from your lips, needing you so much I can't bear it, drowning in the golden beauty that is you, head swimming with the scents you are anointing me with.
Your hand is on my cock, rubbing the earthy, sexual scent of the oil into it, and I know how a god feels before sacrifice: excitement, no fear, giving in to the Earth from which he will be born again.
I must, I must get inside you, now, can't you hear me begging? All these bites and nibbles and licks on my mouth, neck and nipples--you're driving me mad, it is your centre that I want, it's there where I must be.
Your thighs part while I'm kissing your mouth; you wrap your legs around me and murmur encouragement, hope, need. I dip the head of my cock between your wet cunt-lips, and that alone is a blessing: my cock tasting of your warm nectar.
It is me who is trembling like a virgin now, but you hold me tight and whisper tenderly as I rock myself inside you slowly, every wet millimetre a prayer granted.
Heaven, it is heaven and Lethe and forgiveness, you make me pure by taking me inside, burning away all of my sins in the heat that is you, drowning me in the dew that is you. It feels as if all of me is concentrated in my cock; all of me enveloped with your mercy, in bliss. I am forgiven of all cruelty and malice, with your tenderness filling me, making me remember love.
Gladly, I kiss the spring of jasmine from your mouth, promise of renewal, as I spend my seed in ecstasy. My cock softens like all must wilt, yet safe resting inside you, soon to be born again, soon to ride the heady tide of sex once more.
Waking up in the night, I feel cold, I feel empty of spirit and blackened within with guilt. Your warmth still burns next to me, light in the night, but for how long can any of us burn, living this way? We'll all be dead, sooner rather than later, it's as if we're racing from death only to reach another death.
I wish I hadn't done this to you of all people, you would have been better breathing the fresh air of free worlds, with the colour of sun on your skin. We--all of us--found ourselves in the wrong places, at the wrong times, none of us with any hope left.
Now I feel I should name myself Hades, oh yes, the cruel and cold Hades. What else would fit better? Having stolen you away and taken you to my bed, only to live in the darkness of space, with pleasures turning cold, with souls already dead.
I turn away and wrap myself in the sheets; their warmth is no match for yours, but they will have to suffice.
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