by Jane Brooke
The Tales of The Arabian Nights has nothing on this guy.
Bending at the soap stone waters edge, he digs into the saddle bags, retrieves a thick plastic bag, which he places the leather bags into.
“Leave your coat here. Trust me.”
He moves to the cave wall, slots the torch into a bracket, turns, allows his great cape to furrow to the rock floor. On overload, she stares in disbelief at him. He wears a simple, long sleeve white cotton shirt, draw string cotton pants. His long hair spills down his back, his face as she glances at his feet which hold the colors of the rainbow on them.
The cold of the cave engulfs her, she shivers. He turns, and back lit by the flames, he stares at her, waits for her to peel off her coat. For the obvious reasons, she is reluctant to do so.
“The coat, Mandal.”
She smirks, sighs, unravels from it, groan’s as she slips her shoulder holster, 44 off of her own broad shoulders.
He giggle’s, whispers. “You are a very bad girl.”
She shrugs her shoulders, what is she going to say, except. “Girl stuff, Jason.”
More giggles from him, as he nods, say’s. “Okay Bonnie, come.”
She giggles, wondering what kind of man says so little about a gun packing killer female carrying so much weaponry.
Ever so slowly, he extends his hand back for her to take his scared fingers.
“It’s not far. Just a few moments under water. Just hold my hand, you’ll be fine.”
She is shivering from the cold, yet willing to jump into a volcano to be near him. She moves close to him, loving the feel of his warm skin in her hand.
“Here we go.”
He slips into the mirror, water surface. The water ripples as he pulls her into the icy cold, clearer than air water.
They descend, the water shocks her, invigorates her, as under the broken mirror they begin to swim. Her eyes grow wide in awe, as his long hair spills behind him, flames from the torch on the wall illuminating his almost fish scaled body before her eyes.
Every thing seems normal to her.
Holding on to some geniuses hand while swimming within the center of some mountain, in the bowls of the Earth, seems quite natural to her. His grip holds her strong. Her body is frozen along her exterior, melting within.
He powerfully drags her some meters along what appear to be glimmering liquid prisms of Opals, Peridots, Moon stones, capturing the trailing fire flames behind them; mimicking the color of his skin, she supposes.
The swim lasts a moment longer and, then heads bob to the surface.
She sputters, teeth chattering, body shaking. She gasps, for she hears the echos of his coughing, breathing. They are in a great open chamber, and she can neither see it or know it, but only feel it.
Like some kind of graceful seal, he finds the edge, lifts himself and lay’s the plastic trash bags on the rock. He bends, lifts her by her hands as if she is a pebble as her bare feet touch the rock surface. His strength amazes her.
Horse men she knows have such power in their torsos.
She falls to her knees, shivering uncontrollably, her teeth clacking.
He moves through the complete darkness, how he can see, she does not know. And, then a massive woolen blanket surrounds her thin frame, as well now in her hands is what appears to be dry, white cotton blouse and trousers.
“Put these on. We’ll have fire in a moment.”
He moves away from her. She struggles out of her wet T-shirt, jeans, as she shivers as she crushes the blanket around her naked white skin, forming a cape of the blanket, to cover her hair. Suddenly, she realizes that she looks just like him now.
Normally, real world reality might poke its head in, ruining a girl’s mojo, but not her.
Let’s see, a young woman racing through deserts, daft poet leading, swimming in water pools that look like faceted gem stones, seems all good to her.
Hanging in caves, not worrying about her future might cause her to have pause of her own sanity, not to mention her own judgment. Since they both practically invented the word eccentric, she doesn’t for a moment question what or why she is doing what she is doing.
Bobby Ugo could change that in an eye blink.
Oops, forgot about that.
Suddenly, flames ignite from a fire pit.
She watches mesmerized as her Eagle Scout adds twigs, kindling to a pyramid of stacked logs. Her eyes grow alive, for pretty much this is all she has ever dreamed life to be from the time of a child to now, a lunatic.
Sitting, on his heels, like a Vietnamese fish monger, wearing a red, blue and yellow wool cape and hood again, hair spilling down his face, he stokes the fire with a stick, until it blazes. Sparks, fire blisters, cracks to the twenty meter roof, smoke escaping from some hidden vent within it. She rubs her eyes, seeing his silhouette, wondering if she is hallucinating or dreaming at best.
She stares at his hair, which resemble strands of twisted, woven copper, holding a patina color to it impossible for her to describe in her mind. Her breath explodes between her chattering teeth, slender body shaking, as her mind races.
Finally, now honest and how welcomed it all feels as she sees into a future; one she can only ever imagine sharing with him.
Warmer now from the heat and the blanket she looks out in awe at the hundreds of cave drawings, painted everywhere along the walls. They depict Indians as they once had been; warriors, hunters, tee pees, fathers, mothers, spear, bow, horse, squaw, child and courage and a sense of tribe are cut in color everywhere.
Around the cave floor there are Indian blankets. Apache, Sioux, Arapaho, some old, many priceless, others rare, beautiful, woven from passion, from artists long dead, only their talent still living, kept sacred from his love of a people, their art was well represented as was their pasts.
Small, wooden tables are scattered everywhere. Each holds stacks of paper, pens, pencil’s set beside them. Off to the side are stacked cords of firewood, waiting, lingering in her mind to warm them both.
For, what she wants now, what she must have is all there, set in one man.
This is the World, her World, with a man, in a Universe no one can ever comprehend. Yet, she does and it is everything she has forever dreamed of. She feels clean, whole and complete and finally where she belongs; finally a home for her has matisised within the most unlikely place on Earth.
She looks at him, near the flames. He does not move, hunched, hair streaming to the floor, again hiding his face, one she still has not clearly seen.
Unable now to stop, anything, her body is screaming for something she has never felt before. A feeling, perhaps of a woman wanting, needing a man, someone superior than her; a man she respects and now loves for the first time, so she stands.
She moves to him, hovers over him, feels the fires heat on her face. She is no longer cold, her breathing coming stronger, as she has become.
Kneeling next to him, she hesitates and understands what he is feeling, for she has also shed her skin. Something different now, impossible to describe, perhaps hideous as to the way others might think of him. Yet, perhaps she is now beautiful, inside, of the heart. It does not confuse her; it all is what it is.
She swallows, shudders, whispers. “Jason, I’m going to touch you now. Please don’t be afraid.”
Listening to his rasping breathing, her fingers extend, touching his cowl. He flinches, yet, does not resist. His face, eyes pressed towards the Earth remains bowed, staring at his friend the fire.
It is a substance that he had asked for so long ago to change him forever.
It had.
Feeling tears well, she swallows them, slowly lifts his cowl from his head. Still unable to see him, she then, perhaps as a woman might touch a child she loves, tenderly lays her fingers beneath his chin, feeling his face shudder
ing as she does.
With her other hand, she sweeps his hair from his face, lifts his chin, turning his face to hers. She gasps in awe as tears spill down the poreclain that is her skin color. What she sees, in her mind, is the most remarkable man she could ever imagine.
His face is burnt, mottled in ridges, yet somehow the fire had missed his lips, and nose, though they are horribly scared also. He is a color matrix, a carrousel of mauve, citrine, blues of unimaginable hues trail from his forehead down along his face. They blend into rivers of more scars and more colors, falling secretly down his neck, melding into his chest, mostly hidden from his white cotton blouse.
His face is some what distinctive, intact, his Indigo eyes, like hers, imaginative, inquisitive, intelligent are broken crystals of grief.
They open, she hears his breathing, feels his breath upon her lips. They are filled with water, not from pity, nor from cowardliness, but from simple relief that they are being seen, cared for, perhaps by the only species in the world that can understand them.
Touching his face, she whispers. “You are beautiful.”
Slow, gently, she lowers her lips to his, kisses him tenderly, her fingers entwined within his long hair. His hands move to her neck, mottled color against white, as he feels her lips, breath, sharing an experience never known to him before.
The kiss lingers, lasts for seconds, perhaps hours. Neither asks such questions of time any longer.
He backs away, she smiles. His fingers trail along her past faded scars, her new cuts, bruises, he smiles, a man, now once again a man again.
For some time they simply kneel, touching, staring, and, then he whispers. “You are magnificent.”
Extending her arms, she takes his hands and presses them against her breasts, allowing him to feel her heart beating strong now.
“No, you make my heart do this.” She allows her blanket to furrow to the rock, “It is you that is magnificent. I am no gift, but I want to be one to you. I have to. Let me be the guide now.”
He tries to bow his head.
She prevents him from doing so from fingers under his chin, forcing his eyes to see her eyes. Leaning in, she brushes her lips to his, holding his palms against her body, whispering as she does. “This is all I have to give to you, please.”
Swallowing his fear, mesmerized by her voice, her face, her words, he can not resist.
No longer able to say no, he whispers. “Yes.”
A gasp escapes her mouth. The flames make her warm, she must now, be this woman she never knew had been inside of her since birth.
Reaching forward, she pulls his long sleeve white shirt from his raised arms.
She gasps for his body matches his face in splendor. She sees shame in his eyes, bends, begins to kiss the burnt scars on his neck, his chest, whispering as she does, after each kiss.
“You are beautiful. Here...here...and here.”
His body shakes, she understands. She rises, pulls her T shirt from her pale skin and, then kneels, wraps her arms around his body, drawing him into her skin. His hands lace along her muscled back, down her struck spine, he moans as he feels her breath, her kisses on the skin of his neck.
Her eyes close as does his. She feels the heat from his hands as suddenly she feels sexual, vibrant.
Never before feeling this, she opens her eyes, leers into his eyes.
“It is time.”
Her eyes heat, grow almost wild, as does his. Her breath intensifies, his eyes grow strong, blaze. He will not deny her.
He cannot resist her for she is a perfect storm of nature, and he knows it.
Looking to her left, flames spiraling along her skin, she sees a thick Indian Blanket. She presses her fingers to his lips, smiles and, then presses them to his, telling him within the gesture, not to move.
He smiles, so very little.
She lays the blanket close to the fire. Taking his hands, she lifts him slightly, lays him prone on his back along the blanket.
Slowly, she pulls his cotton trousers off of his body. She stares at his burnt body, gasps for breath.
Trailing her fingers everywhere, she gazes at his penis, which somehow the fire had missed. He is engorged, so large as she smiles as he blushes, as best he can. She has disarmed his shame.
She whispers, perhaps the whore again. “Captain, my, my.”
He giggles, both have senses of humor, love, desire, their tormented lives, have not changed that. She trails her white fingers down his entire burnt body, whispers in awe. “Quite Amazing.”
Standing, eyes never leaving her, she allows her white cotton trousers to spool along her ankles. She steps out from them, stands naked before him.
His eyes, they can not blink, as she hovers above him, not smiling, a pure nihilistic look in her eyes. He thinks she is formless, pale, simply made of skin, bone, muscle. In his mind she looks like a tall, young girl, not yet out of puberty, as he watches the few blond hairs, on her arms, eyebrows, legs glow from the flames of the fire.
For some moments, she simply stares, tummy swelling, mesmerized by him. She cannot tell how old he is, for his Spartan, horseman’s body is muscled, cut. His hips are narrow, broad shoulders, muscles on his stomach appearing, disappearing. She can see the power exuding from him as his breath increases.
She then kneels, stares at a gift that she has coveted of since a child.
Her fingers wisp along his skin, she bends, kisses his lips and, then whispers. “I love you.”
There is no answer, how can there be?
They are strangers, geniuses, yet he believes her, trusts her and desires her. He will now, as other men have, believe anything that falls from her lips.
Except now she is in love with him.
Why not, why not him, finally!
She believes in fate, knows now why she ran ten years earlier from Montreal. She risked everything to finally make her way here, into the center of the mountain, to be with him.
Her blues glance at his erection.
She sees the thick corded veins, his girth
How beautiful she thinks it is.
Her hand moves, wraps around it, gently, holds it, he moans, she whispers. “Am I hurting you...Jason?”
Barely able to breath, his breath coarse, he shakes his head back and forth, closes his eyes. She smiles, wants him at complete ease, again says. “Captain. I see some thing did not change.”
He opens his eyes, as her humor, her way with him, lightens him. He smile’s, she sees that answer in his smile, eyes. He is not shy now, says. “A soldiers number one weapon.”
His joke makes her giggle like a child.
That quickly vanishes.
She lowers her lips to his lips, kisses him, as his hands finds her butt, lay there, squeeze. She shudders, places her lips along his neck, kisses him and, then she whispers. “Oh Jason...Oh Jason.”
He is silent, as she straightens, stretches, arches her spine like a cat, her ribs showing, her stomach billowing, his eyes welded to every inch of her. Having never made love, with a man, only numbing sex, she has no road maps here.
She lay’s along side of him, spoons him, guides his hands along her back, her rump, her legs, her breasts, moans escaping her lips as he does.
She can not bare it any longer. She must feel him, taste him, so she rights her self, straddles him, her body stretching before him.
Slowly, she crawls down his body, on her knees, her eyes staring at him over his penis, touching her lips to it, as he moans. With both hands wrapped around its girth, she wraps her lips around the knob, kisses it with her tongue. He groans, his back arches, she presses her hands on his chest as she lowers her mouth, slowly and, then guides his penis into her throat, to its haft.
He groans, wraps his hands around the back of her head as a transformation come
s over him.
He begins to move his hips, up, down, and continues, pouring his cock through her mouth, down her throat, over, and over again. She feels him expanding, unties his finger from around her head, releases him and straightens.
His blue eyes open, his breathing is swelling, her arms are raised to the air, her entire body elongating, shaking, as she rips her head back and forth, seeming growling as she does. Her eyes dip, they are crazed, her forehead furrows, he sees such insanity. It makes him crazy, as she crawls on top of him, smiles again.
She reaches back, can barely get her small hand around his girth. She lifts her rump and, then places the knob of his penis against her cunt. The word Cunt”explodes into her mind.
She is thinking like this again, cocks, cunts, as the tramp in her returns, but this time for only one man.
This is love, as she knows it.
She cannot change for she is a banal heathen, hard wired, now sexual, now feeling the ripping reality of wanting to be fucked. There is no love involved, though she is encapsulated with that feeling. One more crazed smile, she rams her vagina down, driving his penis deep, as far as it will go.
Her pain is immense, the ecstasy more, his also, as he groans watching her head thrown back as she groans and, then allows a guttural growl to scream from her lips.
Moments pass, more time, neither understands such things as she whips her head back and forth, and her teeth grit, her body tremours as she ORGASMS.
She bows her head, snakes it back and forth, she is covered in sweat. Her teeth grit, lips bare, he is simply awed by her, as she starts up all over again. His eyes watch, every sinew in her body, she is feral, primitive, he sees all of it.
Her skin turns pink, the blood, along her blue veins, flushing through her body. He feels his penis expanding, his own blood flow, as then in complete abandonment, she grinds, crashes his penis up, down, thrusting her small hips, supporting herself with her hands on his chest.
She whooshes, whooshes, cries, sucks in air, her eyes uncivilized as he then, hands wrapped around her waist, matches each lunge from her with one of his own.
Suddenly, her back goes rigid, as she slumps, screams, ORGASMS again. He makes an instant transformation and morphs. He is the soldier one again.
