The Fire in Starlight

by Maria Isabel Pita

  Now that she was looking, Sofia realized many of the trees on her property were already sprouting light-green leaves in defiance of the cold and the number of dead branches she relished burning in the fire every night. She would need to make a trip to Home Depot in Zachary for some things, including humming bird feeders. She wondered if John was there now buying the materials for her chicken coop. The minutes were ticking by more slowly than seemed physically possible as she waited for him to show up. Centuries had passed faster than this single morning. One minute she was being strangled to death in a besieged castle, the next she was stretching her arms trustingly out of a crib, cooing with pleasure to find herself in a fresh body with budding senses, not caring that they dried up and died because they were always filled with the mysterious sap of memories transcending time...

  It was impossible for her to take a pleasant walk out in nature without metaphysical thoughts spouting inside her and imbuing everything with an even more fascinating dimension than it already possessed on a physical level. She was a poet at heart, there was no denying it, and, it seemed, a budding mystic as well. She was shedding her agnostic classification like a shell that had never really fit her and relishing this new, intensely sensitive skin she was in whose defenses were courageously profound rather than comfortably superficial. She had made the decision to trust John before she knew him, and so far her intuition had not proved wrong. All her life surrounded by atheists, she had never been comfortable completely believing in things that lay outside the sphere of science, yet her dreams were leaving her no choice but to take the side of a part of her that could almost be termed psychic—someone marked by mysterious perceptions or understanding—even though there was nothing non-physical about the chemistry between her and John, it was very real indeed.

  She heard gravel crunching beneath tires out on the “main” road and thought Kelly was making her run early today, but the sound didn't stop at her mailbox; it kept drawing closer. She hurried around the house and saw a white pick-up truck pulling up next to her car. She ran towards it as John leapt lithely out and walked around behind it.

  "Good morning!” she called, tempted to add “my lord” but not quite able to get the words out in the casual light of day.

  "Good morning, Sofia.” He was already unloading the truck, beginning with a couple of two-by-fours he carried over to the edge of the trees a few yards to the west of her house. “I figure this is a good place for the coop,” he said as she followed him. “It's convenient from the kitchen door, but not so close that their squawking will annoy you in the morning, unless you have the windows open, then there's no escaping it."

  She wanted to say, “Don't I get a kiss good morning?” but his smile wiped this petulant disappointment clear out of her mind. She had never seen him smile like that, and for an instant she was blinded. Everything about him was so dark—his clothes, his hair, his goatee—that when he grinned it was like the sun suddenly showing up in the center of black clouds beaming the force of his soul straight into hers. Instead she asked, “Are chickens really that noisy all the time?"

  "No, only in the morning after the sun rises and they can't understand while they're still cooped up.” He paused beside her on his way back to the truck, adding quietly, “My girls are very vocal."

  Lightning flashed in her womb, a hot, melting sensation. The way he said that sounded so sexy she didn't know how she could possibly survive jealously watching him use power towels and drive nails into wood all day long.

  He pulled her to him, pressing her body firmly against his as he kissed her, tonguing her roughly, then lightly biting her bottom lip before pushing her away and holding her at arm's length. “Go make me some coffee,” he commanded gently.

  "Yes, my lord. Cream and sugar?"

  "Please.” He smiled again, and let go of her so she could obey him.

  * * * *

  B y mid-afternoon not only was the adorable little coop he had designed finished and ready to house up to five hens, he had also put chicken wire around it, extending the fence out towards the field so the girls had plenty of space in which to forage. He fashioned a gate Sofia could walk through, and provided her with bowls for water and food, as well as with one twenty-five pound bag of chicken food and another of hen scratch, plus a bushel of fresh hay for three nesting cubicles. He had even brought her three Rhode Island Reds from his own stock, two younger ones and a third seasoned layer he explained would act as the den mother. They had been pecking and scratching happily around the house all day, feasting on untold varieties of bugs while occasionally clucking excitedly. The adorable sounds they made delighted her, and she stood watching them for long stretches of time as they scratched and pecked, scratched and pecked, quickly scraping their splayed toes over the ground to reveal the dirt beneath, then staring straight ahead for a split second of intense anticipation before launching their beaks at the ground, where there always seemed to be something delectable for them to eat. When the coop was complete, John handed her a plastic cup half full of scratch and told her to round them up by laying a trail into the fenced in area. It worked like a charm, and he found a hose she hadn't even known was there curled up beneath a bush to fill their water bowl with. Then she closed the gate as he loaded his truck back up with the remains of two-by-fours, nails, and all his tools. She had only managed to get him to take one short break for lunch—hummus sandwiches with broccoli sprouts on whole-wheat bread, organic corn chips, gourmet pickles and bottled water. He declared everything delicious where they sat out on the front porch nourished by the temperate beauty of the day as much as anything, then he got right back to work. She discovered that when he began a project he liked to get it done, and she admired his strength and determination, not to mention his engineering abilities, even as she grew exhausted from lusting after him, especially when he pulled off his shirt and kept working in just his black jeans and boots. They didn't talk much at all. He was concentrating, and she was happy just to feast her eyes on him even though it was torture not being able to touch him.

  It was four o'clock and the sun was already beginning to dip behind the trees when she realized he was getting ready to leave.

  "Won't you stay for dinner, John, please?” she asked, desperate. Her pussy was so wet she felt she would die if he didn't soothe her ache with his hard cock ... she longed for him to stroke her and build the entirely different physical creation of on orgasm using her body as he hammered his erection deep inside her...

  He smiled as he opened the door to the truck. “I'd like to take all this stuff home to the shop and shower, but then I'll come back if you want me to."

  "Of course I want you to. You could even shower here,” she offered.

  "I know I could.” He got into the truck and closed the door. “But we'll save that pleasure for another day.” He reached through the open window and pulled her face down to his by grabbing a fistful of her hair. He kissed her lips without opening his mouth. “Wear something sexy for me.” He let go of her and started the engine.

  "What time can I expect you?” She noticed it was becoming increasingly difficult to part from him.

  "What time is it now?"

  "Around four o'clock."

  "I'll be back by seven. What are you planning to make for dinner? I'd like to bring the right wine to go with it."

  "I was thinking of roast chicken with basmati rice.” She glanced guiltily back at the coop.

  "Sounds delicious. We'll have a quiet night, Sofia.” He shifted gears. “No breath-play for you tonight, my lady. You need a little TLC for a change."

  "I need both, my lord. It reminds me I'm more than just flesh."

  His eyes narrowed as he regarded her darkly for a moment. “We'll continue this conversation later.” He revved the engine, did a confident reverse U-turn, and drove off.

  She stood rooted to the spot until she could no longer hear the sound of his tires crushing the gravel, then she went inside, quickly stripped off her clothes, spread herself
back across the bed, and furiously rubbed her clit with three fingertips until she climaxed, almost instantly, the image of his rare and mysteriously feral smile branded into the darkness behind her closed eyelids.

  Chapter Thirteen

  D espite the fact that she would be carving a roasted bird and risked splattering herself with the juices, Sofia felt compelled to wear white. Perhaps subconsciously she desired to appear innocent on this, their third night together, in contrast to her previous incredibly slutty behavior. Or perhaps the need to wear white was not a trick of her self-esteem at all but a conscious choice with profound roots. As she slipped into the sleeveless, low-cut tunic, she sensually reinforced the truth that she didn't feel guilty about the kinky darkness she had recently unearthed in her nature. There was something mysteriously pure about such intensity of emotion and sensation that inspired a reverent attitude towards the unplumbed depths of her sexuality. She had bought this dress because, like its black counterpart, it was timeless, its simple, gently form-fitting cut evocative of countless cultures and civilizations. It evoked ancient Egypt, a Greek chiton, the white shift of the Catholic novitiate, the undergarment of a Medieval princess, the nightgown of a 19th century governess ... she was countless women in it, and yet how beautiful she looked was unique.

  She rifled through the wooden boxes in which she kept her jewelry, mostly costume pieces she rarely wore but couldn't bring herself to throw out. Such a plain dress, and backless white high-heeled leather sandals, called for something colorful or extravagant to contrast with its classic lines. She had completely forgotten about the silver Gothic-style cross she had bought on impulse one day in a New Orlean's thrift shop. It was completely over the top, elaborately forged by flowering vines that imbued the Christian symbol with a pagan aura, and it hung from a thin white leather cord. She slipped it on and was pleased by the way it rested in her cleavage. It wasn't shaped like the cross on which Christ was crucified because all four parts met in the center like the petals of a flower, which its shape resembled. For some reason she really wanted to wear it tonight even though no other jewelry she owned would work with it. She opened a drawer, as a final touch intending to find a pair of white thong panties to slip on beneath her dress, but then suddenly thought better of it. She wasn't bleeding; she didn't need any panties. She wanted her pussy exposed to the atmosphere, and to his fingers and his cock and his tongue, to anything he might feel like thrusting inside her.

  One reason she had decided on chicken for tonight was because she could prepare dinner in advance and be free to relax and enjoy his company, which she knew would make it hard for her to concentrate on any complicated recipe. The bird was in the oven roasting, and the basmati rice was cooking at very low heat over which it could sit for hours if need be. She had also tossed together a salad of Romaine lettuce, spinach, parsley, chopped walnuts and extra sharp cheddar cheese to serve with a vinaigrette. This simple meal was one of her favorites, but it was the company she was looking forward to more than anything.

  She set the large table in the dining room with burgundy cloth placemats, violet cloth napkins, her good silverware, and the two red wine glasses she used only on special occasions. Two white wine glasses were already chilling in the refrigerator. The large space—empty except for a small pile of boxes she hadn't yet unpacked—echoed cavernously as she moved across the wooden floor in her high-heels. It seemed strange to be eating in a room that didn't even appear lived in, but the formal setting symbolized how serious she felt about this man. The room with the fireplace was all hers for the present, but this part of the house represented the future, and it meant a lot to her that already she had miraculously met someone who—she fervently hoped—could help her bring it to life.

  The clock on the stove was glowing 7:00 in green numbers when she heard the unmistakable sound of a vehicle approaching along the gravel road. All her windows were open to the evening breeze and the distant sound wafted clearly towards her between the trees. She went and stood out on the porch to wait for him, and the vision of his white truck was the most beautiful thing she could imagine lighting up the dusk. A line from one of her favorite old songs wafted through her mind, Nights in white satin, never reaching the end ... Not even a unicorn could have looked more wonderful than that plain white truck magically pulling into her driveway. How on earth had she managed to meet him? It didn't seem possible that he was real and not just a daydream walking towards her holding a bottle of wine. Over the black jeans and boots he seemed to live in he was wearing a white, long-sleeved button down shirt that also seemed to glow in the shadowy twilight beneath her trees. She remembered the way he had stripped out of his clothes last night and wondered if maybe she shouldn't have worn panties after all, because already her pussy was wet after only seconds in his presence

  "Good evening, Sofia."

  "Good evening.” She accepted the bottle of wine even though she would have preferred to take him in her arms. “Thank you."

  "You look beautiful.” He immediately noticed the cross she was wearing and rested it in his hand as he studied it. “This isn't a Catholic cross,” he observed with a note of relief in his voice.

  "No, it's not. I bought it in New Orleans about a year ago. It's a little over the top, I know, but it spoke to me."

  "It looks striking on you.” He rested it between her breasts again, letting his fingertips lightly caress her skin. “Anything would."

  "Thank you.” Smiling happily, she opened the door and preceded him into the house, setting the wine bottle down on the table.

  "Very nice,” he said quietly, “and thank you for not putting us at opposite ends."

  "Of course not!” She laughed. “I want to be close to you."

  "I'm glad. If we're going to play lord and lady of the castle, I'd rather do it in bed."

  "This table was here when I moved in.” She walked into the kitchen. “Would you like a glass of white wine to start?"

  He followed her. “I'd love one."

  She opened the refrigerator and pulled out the bottle of Toasted Head, one of her favorite California Chardonnays.

  He took it from her, and opened it with the corkscrew already resting on the counter as she got out the two chilled glasses.

  "You think of everything,” he observed approvingly.

  "I chill my glass every night."

  He smiled as he poured the wine for them. “You mean I'm not getting any special treatment?"

  "Of course you are ... I mean..."

  "Relax, I'm only teasing you."

  "I'm sorry, I just don't know how to react when a dream teases me!"

  "What do you mean?” He touched his glass to hers, encouraging her to drink before she replied.

  "I don't know ... I just didn't expect..."

  "To meet someone again so soon?"

  "Yes, but you're not just someone..."

  "Neither are you, Sofia."

  "First I dreamed about you, and then you were just sitting on my porch when I got home ... things like that just don't happen!"

  "Obviously, they do.” He sipped his wine and stared out the window behind her. “I've always believed I have the power to create my own destiny, but relationships complicate things, tie up your energies, and before you know it years have passed and you suddenly realize you aren't the person you thought you were."

  She knew he was referring to his ex-wife because it was just how she felt about Steve. “With me it was because I was too afraid to let go and be alone again,” she said.

  "That's part of it,” he agreed, still looking past her. “You can't blame the other person, at least not for everything. Fear of loneliness is just one of many fears that can eat away at our soul like termites until one day everything just collapses. You're lucky if it happens sooner than later and you have a chance to live your life the way you really want to. You can see clearly all of a sudden; all the walls you built up around yourself, for whatever reason, aren't there anymore, at least for a while."

&nbs
p; "Yes, exactly! But nothing we do is a waste; I can't believe that. Something must have been happening inside us that got us to this point even while we seemed to be wasting our time..."

  He took another swig of wine and brought his gaze back inside the house and into her eyes. “We were going through the dark time in our life, Sofia, the time of initiation when we were forced to confront all our fears and doubts precisely because we tried to run away from them."

  "We were plunged into the darkness of despair in order to find the light inside ourselves?"

  He smiled. “You're a Gnostic, my lady."

  "As in the lost gospels?"

  "No, in that sense ‘Gnostic’ means ‘false', as in the ‘false gospels', however, Gnosis is what those gospels preach—a way of knowing that brings the initiate into intimate touch with divine reality. It can't be taught, only achieved through initiation, as opposed to traditional Christianity, and the Holy Roman Catholic church specifically, which forces you to accept a body of dogma so that, hopefully, your sins will be forgiven and you'll achieve a rather boring eternal life. Traditional Christianity embraces blind faith and sexual guilt vs. the Gnostic path of empowered feelings and personal, including sensual, knowledge.” He cradled her cross in his free hand and pondered it for a moment before concluding, very quietly, “We've definitely met before, Sofia."