She tore her eyes away from the sight of his strong arms and bare chest and looked back down at the poem she had written. She liked it because it expressed what she was feeling lately, the contentment and the conflicts, but she didn't really take it seriously. She was never going to be a great poet and she knew it, but that wasn't the point, in her opinion; she was just happy to be expressing herself. She put the notebook and pen down beside her on the wooden swing her sadistic lover had made for her last week and hung between two trees. She stretched her legs and rocked it gently back and forth, feasting her eyes on him again as her mind wandered...
Erotic pain was a fascinating thing, it was its own dimension, a vivid, powerful dream it was hard to remember afterwards when she “woke” from it. At first it had merely been a nightmare, a sensation that made everything go dark beneath its hot flash. She had not screamed beneath the whip's lashes the first time, it had been too terrible for that. She swallowed every inconceivable burst of agony silently, like an unholy communion, mysteriously digesting it. Amazingly, it wasn't long before she actually found herself craving the unbearable. He had only whipped her twice, on her first visit to his home, and then again last night, and she was very glad it was a rare event. He was wise enough to realize that such an intense experience could only happen once in a blue moon, unlike a lot of the other things they did together, some of which were nearly as violent, if not quite as excruciating.
She had been relieved, surprised, and thrilled to discover that the sinister looking wood and leather items in his root cellar were not at all torturous, on the contrary, they only intensified her pleasure by positioning her and cushioning her and holding her down in such a way that she couldn't escape it. Her favorite “toy” was a piece she thought of us a full body pew over which she knelt with her head and torso comfortably supported on soft black leather, with her wrists and ankles strapped down so she couldn't move—and had no desire to—as he used whichever one of her orifices he was in the mood for, or all three of them one after the other sometimes. She also loved the wooden cross she willingly martyred herself against as he flogged her and got her pussy so wet the only pain she felt was the absence of his cock in her cunt, and when he fucked her afterwards, time flowed mysteriously away on her juices. The first time it seemed only a matter of minutes before he climaxed and pulled out of her, but actually over half-an-hour had passed, or so he told her, she still could hardly believe it. But apparently it was indeed possible to fall into a sensual trance when her body was subjected to the stinging strokes of leather alternated by the soft caresses of a feather and the firm, moist stimulation of his kisses. The more he fucked her, the more she wanted him. The harder he was on her, the harder she wanted him to be on her. Like the forest in Spring, his predilections were growing and defining themselves, coming into their full, dark flower through her profound soul and utterly submissive body.
"Don't you need a break?” she called to him, feeling a little guilty about how hard he was working for her.
"No,” he replied shortly, not even glancing over at her as he concentrated, his tanned skin gleaming like bronze mixed with pure gold in her eyes. When she first met him he was winter pale, now his goatee and black hair made her think of an ancient Persian king. There was no end to what her imagination could do with him, and in turn he couldn't seem to do enough for her physically, not just in bed but in every respect.
She picked up her pen and notebook again, but then just sat staring at her lover's flexing muscles as she struggled to understand, by somehow putting into words, why she loved being used so roughly during sex by a man who otherwise treated her with such tender respect. She had never been so happy with Steve, and maybe it was the fact that she couldn't control John that made her love him more every day. Sometimes she caught herself trying to subtly manipulate him the way she had her previous lovers, but it never worked, and how ashamed she was of herself for trying couldn't compare to how thrilled she was by the hard, inviolate core of his personality her attempts exposed. He saw right through her thoughts and actions when they weren't completely sincere, and afterwards it felt good and natural that he should punish her for being selfish and weak and continuing to indulge those parts of herself she was trying to rise above.
She gave up and got up, heading for the house to get her hardworking lover a glass of ice water. She wasn't in a place yet where she could capture in words what it felt like to be whipped, and then fucked so violently from behind that she was literally suspended on his driving erection, her wet-hot pussy a cauldron in which every sensation—the constricting strain on her wrists and arms, the burning whip marks crisscrossing her skin, his fingers digging cruelly into the tender skin of her breasts as he braced himself on them—was alchemized by the force of his thrusts into an overwhelming fulfillment that turned the conventional definition of pleasure inside out; it was a mysterious negative of pleasure the experience of which was hard to remember clearly and impossible to explain reasonably.
* * * *
"W hat happens when your sabbatical is over, Sofia?"
She looked at him, caught off guard by the question. “I don't know.” They were sitting out on his front porch again, one of their favorite places to be in the evening, the sunset an extraordinary spectacle arranged just for them. That was how she felt when she was with him—that they were the very heart of the universe. She wondered if this was the way all lovers felt.
"Are you planning to commute all the way to LSU everyday?"
"Not every day.” She sipped her Chardonnay. “I'd try and schedule classes for two or three days a week only, if possible."
"Do you miss teaching?"
"Not at all!” How quickly and vehemently she replied surprised her. She hadn't consciously thought about it, but now that she did, she realized it was true—she didn't miss having students and papers to grade and, especially, being forced to study the same poems over and over again every year because they were a required part of the curriculum. She especially dreaded dealing with all the other teachers in the department now that Robert was gone and she wouldn't be able to hide under his wonderful, tenured wing. She would no longer have an excuse to keep to herself as much as she had when he was around, and she realized now with stomach turning clarity that she was dreading the whole cut-throat academic scene.
"Then why go back, Sofia?"
"Because I need to make a living, John.” Obviously he knew that, so she couldn't understand why he would ask.
"Do you?” He looked down into his wine. The glass was perched on the buckle of his belt as he sat comfortably slouched in his chair, his right ankle resting on his left knee.
She was silent. Something immensely important was happening here, she could feel it...
"If we merged our lands, my lady,” he looked up from the golden wine at the soft violet sky through the black screen, “we would own seventy acres between us. There's a lot we could do with that."
"I don't know anything about farming, John,” she reminded him reluctantly, with artificial equanimity, because her heart was beating fast and hard.
"I realize that, but I know a thing or two. Besides, we'd have people for that.” He smiled over at her.
"Of course!” She smiled back.
"Almost every night you trust me with your life, Sofia,” he said soberly. “Trusting me with your finances is nowhere near as dangerous."
"You mean ... I wouldn't need to go back to LSU?"
"Not if you don't want to."
She was silent. Even if it was only a business partnership he was proposing, it was a wonderful prospect...
"Just think about it,” he concluded, sitting up and setting his wine glass down on the table.
"I don't have to think about it,” she protested softly, staring earnestly into his eyes when he looked back at her. “I'd love to merge my land with yours, my lord. You know that..."
"Yes. Put your glass down."
She didn't smile as she obeyed him; what was between them wa
s too intense. It wasn't just her pussy that was getting hot; her soul was threatening to burn joyfully right through her flesh as she sensed their future together being forged.
"Come here.” He sat up straight and patted his lap.
She stood up and perched on his knees, relaxing against his chest as he slipped an arm over her shoulders. She caressed his chest while he stroked one of her thighs gently.
"You're beautiful,” he said quietly. “I'm so happy to be here with you."
"And I'm so happy to be here with you!" she whispered.
"Your dreams have made my life, Sofia. Who you are, the way you are, makes it possible for me to really be myself, and I'm not just talking about our sex life. Being with you affects everything I do because of what you make me feel. Do you know what I mean?"
"Yes,” she sighed, “because I feel the same way about you."
"Do you love me?"
"With all my soul, my lord!"
"And I love you. I feel as though I always have, and I believe now that I always will."
Chapter Sixteen
T he forest was so green and lush, so fresh and new, it was hard to remember the skeletal branches of trees in winter. As if overnight, the oaks and maples and beech trees—and at least half a dozen other species she didn't know the names for yet—leafed out and didn't stop. The avid swiftness with which bare branches became rustling canopies made her think of little green tongues eager to taste the light, to lick the rain and kiss the breeze. John planted his spring garden—tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, carrots, shallots and sweet onions, plus all sorts of other delicious things. He said the soil was very acidic, so he grew everything in raised beds he had made himself, naturally. He didn't use pressure-treated wood, which he considered poisonous, but a black aluminum he had found in his favorite junkyard. Her respect for him deepened with every passing day, and with every project she saw him undertake and complete with striking results.
She went to Home Depot one morning to run an errand for him. Charged with the task of finding stainless steel bolts and washers of a specific size, she came to appreciate why he sometimes spent so much time searching the isles for exactly what he needed. It took her, and two employees, almost half-an-hour to find just the right little pieces of stainless steel. Her lover built things to last, and he never rushed what he was working on; once he started something he didn't divide his concentration by initiating any other projects. In a way Sofia felt like his most special, and hopefully life-long, creative effort; she felt more relaxed and sensual than she had ever suspected was possible. She had always known she was lovely and intelligent, special in her own way, like every other human being, but there had been something roughly insecure and unfinished about her whereas now, in John's hands, her thoughts were confidently polished and her feelings glowed in a way that clearly shown in her eyes and in her smile, and even in the healthy radiance of her skin when it wasn't marked by something he had done to her.
She was perversely proud of her sensual bruises. In fact, she felt bereft when there was no evidence of his desire for her adorning her flesh. Inside and out, emotionally and physically, she knew she was the perfect palette for him, and even though he never said as much, she sensed he felt the same way. It didn't bother her that a lot of people, especially in Louisiana, would think there was something unnatural, maybe even satanic, about their sex life. Breath-play wasn't safe; it wasn't normal. Only a devilish man could enjoy whipping the woman he loved, and she herself was a lost cause, a hopeless sinner, a true daughter of Eve and cousin to Mary Magdalene. Except that there was no evidence to support the assumption that Mary was a whore, whereas it was clearly indicated in a variety of gospels that she was Christ's most beloved disciple. The vision of history she had been force-fed was increasingly sticking in Sfoia's throat the more she read, and the more she learned about herself as she willingly submitted to the discipline of a lovingly tender yet also erotically sadistic man.
It was early May and already she had seen a black snake in her backyard. John assured her it was harmless, but she didn't get any closer to it than necessary. Spiders had also begun appearing, weaving their webs everywhere, prompting her to twist her long hair up into a baseball cap because she dreaded catching one in it, especially a big Golden Orb Weaver. The black caterpillars with the white paint splashes down their backs were gone at last busy transforming themselves into moths. In April they had been everywhere, and she had made the mistake once of laying a pair of house pants out on the back porch to finish drying. When she went out to get them there were at least fifteen caterpillars clinging to the light-green cotton they mistook for a massive leaf. She shook it out in mild disgust, not relishing the thought of future moths crawling up her crotch.
It was stunning how much more aware she was of Spring and the burgeoning of life out in the country than she ever had been in the city. At her apartment complex squirrels and a few birds lived in the trees, and of course there was no escaping the mosquitoes in summer, but that was about it as far she could remember. Certainly she had never heard, much less seen, an armadillo rooting beneath her porch. John had put an electric fence around his garden to keep out predators, three layers of wire—one close to the ground for smaller creatures, one a bit higher for armadillos and the like, and the taller one for deer. He assured her the fence gave the animals only a mild shock that deterred them from returning but didn't harm them. He offered to help her start her own garden, but she declined for the moment, not quite ready yet for so much abundance. Sometimes she needed a break from sensual stimulus and spent the whole day sitting inside at the computer, using its virtual armor to protect herself from the mysteriously demanding beauty of all the life surrounding her.
When the cows were in John's field she sat on the oak bench he had made for her and watched them. She thought of ancient Egypt and of Hathor, the goddess of love—who was often depicted as a cow with the lunar disc resting between her curved horns—and began writing another poem in her notebook...
SECRET FOREST
Little stick-um frogs on the windows at night
and sinisterly sensual moths desiring the light.
Cell-phone-faced spiders I can easily dial
the extravagant heart of all Creation on,
beautiful as gems on 3-D webs of silver thread
spun in the enchanted beam of a utility lamp.
Love-bugs always fucking without facing each other
becoming a smear of ink on my affronted flesh
as I brush off their clinging commonness.
Butterflies blue-black and Monarchs larger
than beauty so fragile should logically be
wafting right in front of me; a visual fragrance
from paradise never present long enough
except as a longing more vivid than their wings.
Humming birds fighting for plastic yellow flowers
strung out on store-bought nectar mixed with one
cup unrefined sugar, starting, stopping, plunging
into the mineral bath I filled for them because I love
their happy greedy chirping as they dip and sip;
the air subtly displaced by the unfathomable
force of wings defying reason that can't grasp
how many miraculous times they beat per second.
A trinity of fireflies ascended into the trees
my first night here as I rested my heavy head
on feathers buried in violet Egyptian sheets.
The moon wakes me now with its light cutting sharper
than Excalibur into fears grown thick as weeds
fighting the concrete reality in which I always lived,
depressed by cities’ jaundiced skies, until these healthy
wonderful moments in time created by the true love
I always hoped to find—a squirrel running and jumping
from one branch of circumstance to another hording
the seeds of dreams, some of which fall with a clang
on the roof of my lover's workshop, rich as pharaoh's tomb
with tools for penetrating and shaping nature's beauty
around his imagination—ancient and powerful
as the black snake winding between the Ginger leaves
eating small creatures and all illusions of Eden,
a living hieroglyph consuming history
with the frightening forked tongue of countries
moving too fast crushing everything in their path.
A tuft of white and gold feathers might have been an owl
or a falcon dining on the modern road's deadly table.
The stiff bodies of delicious deer going to waste
while fat and fearful cows remain temporarily safe,
painting an ever-changing bas-relief on the landscape
teleporting me back centuries with every breath I take;
all the cells of my body magically replaced
again and again as casually as lazy jaws chew
the earth's green skin on obscenely thick tongues—
Hathor's languid priestesses passionately licking
the salt in my blood for which mosquitoes blindly risk
everything, but my goddess’ hand shows them no mercy.
The Fire in Starlight Page 16
