There must be something wrong with me.
I can begin, but I am, as yet, unable to finish. I don't like endings. Conclusions bother me. And even though I have a firm story in my mind, I can't funnel those thoughts through my head and onto the screen.
My arousal has gone from great to nothing. I think that's the problem. I no longer feel the way I did when I began these stories.
I'm sure there's some kind of prescription arousal pill for women . . . if that has to be my muse to finish these goddamn stories that have been unwritten for longer than a year, so be it.
"Who are you?"
"I don't know."
"What's your name?"
"I don't know."
"How did you get here?"
"I don't know."
"Why did you come?"
" . . . I don't know."
-•-
The rain washed away everything in this state, even colors. In winter you noticed it, when the sky darkened and rain fell, as the landscapes and buildings turned dismal shades of grey. The only bit of color was the trash and debris that swirled over drains, the wasted and unwanted hubris of humankind.
He watched her now, deep in thought. The rain that drizzled down his windows and the faded light of the moon through the evergreens backlit this strange young woman, who shivered slightly in an old towel. She had arrived not very long ago among torrents of rain and, unnaturally, flashes of lightning. She gazed at him resolutely as he steepled his fingers and rested his chin on his fingertips.
"Not even a name, huh?"
Her hair swung in wet strands as she shook her head.
"Would you like some hot tea?"
Her lips pursed, as if in thought, before nodding slightly. He got up, happy to be occupied as he puzzled her out. Setting down a large mug, he wrapped the string of a chamomile packet once over the handle then set the teakettle to boil over the burner. He turned around, observing her watching him and tapped the sides of the counter. Her tawny eyes followed him throughout the kitchen, where, almost as an afterthought, he prepared a mug of vanilla roibos for himself. She watched him in quiet interest.
He listened as the water boiled faster, took off the kettle before it could whistle.
"Sugar?" he asked with his brows, head indicating the canister.
Again a shake of the head.
He gently collected both mugs and walked back into the living room. Handing over hers, she immediately started blowing on the surface, still looking at him. He relaxed deeper into the leather loveseat and sipped his own.
"Do you have somewhere you can stay in town?" He threw out the question hopefully. A bachelor for many years, he was not accustomed to housing orphans. More silence.
"Well. I guess you can stay here. At least until we can get something figured out." He paused. "Let me go get you an old t-shirt. You can sleep in the bedroom."
He put his mug down and stood up, walking in the direction of the darkened bedroom. He entered the generous walk-in closet and perused his clothes. Hanging behind the many sober suits was an old football t-shirt, lovingly worn but still serviceable even after two generations. He turned to find her leaning against the doorway, dark hair drying plastered against her cheeks. Her eyes were odd, amber and leonine. Her delicate fingers dropped from the paneling and hung limply at her side.
"It should fit," he said quietly as he passed it to her. She nodded and stepped back to let him pass.
"You can sleep here." He pointed to the king-sized bed. "It's clean," he added.
He exited and closed the door until it was open only a sliver. He could hear her rustling as she took off her damp clothes.
"I'll be going to work in the morning. I hope you don't mind if I lock you in . . . I don't have any spares. Don't be alarmed when I come in to get my clothes. I'll probably be gone before you wake. Make yourself at home until I come back."
Silence. He went to the closet to get some blankets and settled them down over the sofa. He climbed in, shifted, and turned off the table lamp. He was asleep in very few heartbeats.
-•-
In the morning, he opened the door gently. Weak sunlight filtered in, as he stood and stared at his strange guest in awe. Forgoing any sleepwear, she slept in the nude, one slim foot hanging out of the covers and out of the bed. She had stretched out completely sideways on his large bed, one full breast uncovered by neither sheets nor blanket. Her nipple, his eyes being drawn irresistibly, was hard and a color darker than her eyes, with small areolas. Her dark hair spread all over on his pillows.
He made his way as quietly as possible to the closet. He didn't want to wake her with his presence in such a compromising unconscious state. Picking out today's attire, the wooden hangers clicked together as he held them in his hand. He scooped up a pair of shoes and crept back to the entrance of the closet.
He stopped. Discomfort washed over him as he stared at her prone figure, realizing she was awake and gazing at him through strands of hair. She lay still, not moving or making a move to cover herself. Her breasts moved gently as she breathed. And still she just looked at him.
He started walking briskly and muttered a good morning quickly.
-•-
Part One: Mundus Vult Cecipi, Ergo Decipiatur
Thou art Angelo, and upon this rock I will build my church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it. And I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound in heaven; and whatsoever thou shalt loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven.
Traveling from Rome to the Emerald Isle was more exhausting than he expected. The horse - and the donkey - was uncomfortable but traveling by boat, he found, was excruciatingly miserable. Angelo was weak from the pitching and rolling of the waves and more oft than not he was on his knees with a bucket for a companion.
I am bound to have weaknesses, he thought. Praise God for He is my strength.
Angelo shuffled to his cot in his small cabin. He recalled what had sent him on this maritime nightmare, the Curia Romana. The administration was steeped with the sentiments of the old Roman government - rife with conservatism and reverence for precedents.
It was the Bishop, and not his official, who sent for him personally, though.
"The Papal Diocese has, as you know, spread throughout the whole of Europe. And being a member of the Sacra Congregatio Indulgenliarum et Sacrarum Reliquiarum - and an agent of God - there will be trials and tribulations that tempt the strength of the faith of our Mother Church and all her inhabitants."
"We have word that a monastery in Ireland has been abusing their powers and vocations. I have been told they misuse the practice of indulgences and the cult of relics. In every investigation by the Congregation, the findings are trivial and the charges have been dismissed. But this is not a mission for an apprenticing acolyte. A man of your prestige and faith would not have been called upon for such an assignment."
"There are no official documents concerning the trial at hand. You may or may not remember, but Brother Lucio and Brother Gaetano were sent on this same secular investigation. It has been months and there has been no word from either." The Bishop wrung his hands.
"Both, as you know, are exemplerary members of the Church. They have wrought much good from far parishes. They were among the most pious and faithful . . . and we have lost them. Satan has contrived against us and we are too far removed to retrieve them."
"I understand that this is a vast undertaking, but you are the most worthy and honorable of men. Here is what the holy Roman Church asks of you . . . "
Angelo remembered the conversation well. He understood what he must do and felt bidden, in his righteousness, to be a champion for Christ.
The waves molested the boat mercilessly. He stood up wearily and headed to his bucket with another urge to vomit.
-•-
Journal of Angelo of the Sacra Congregatio
February 15th, Year of Our Lord (unintelligible)
Very tired. Crossing of Saint Georges Channel exhausting. Rain plagued our ship. Garments are ridden with fleas from boat's rats. Landed in the middle of the night in small village. Irish couple took pity upon my bedraggled form and stayed with them. They claim to have no Bible, so I gave them one, despite their illiteracy. Tried to tell them importance of the word of God, but weren't interested. Supplies and horse will be bought on the morrow.
Later
Cannot sleep. Thinking of the two brethren. Where have they gone? What is their plight? What did they discover? Will know soon. Told monastery is three days' hard ride north. Will be there within week.
-•-
His rented horse trudged up the trail leading to the monastery. He stopped the aging mare and leapt off, wanting to take in the stone building. It was, in the least, modest. It was of great size however, a hulking stone structure. Grey stones jutted out unevenly but it looked like it would prevail in such a damp country. Monks were wandering around slowly with purpose in the green pastures. The monastic community seemed serene here, and there were no dubious undertones at first glance.
Having his fill, Angelo walked up the rest of the way. Nobody seemed to notice his arrival so he left the mare at the entrance, certain someone would care for it. He stepped inside.
There were pews, enough for the monastery and nearby villages. A large stone cross lay on the raised dais in the middle. There was a lone monk sitting in a middle pew. Angelo walked on the side of the row and looked at him, trying to be unobtrusive but noticeable. The man was oblivious, his head cocked sideways, a happy smile on his face. Perturbed, Angelo walked on, intent on finding somebody to lead him to the Abbot.
The hallway was empty and quiet. He passed the kitchen: a low fire was banked. He passed the larder: ham hocks swung on hooks near bags of flour. Angelo passed what looked to be the Abbot's study, but that, too, was empty. He quickly strode by the library and a set of stairs and out onto the rear door.
And the sight that greeted him was overwhelming. The rolling hills were covered in monks attending to acres of potatoes. Some tilled the land, some carted manure, some planted the seedlings, some distributed the mould, and still others were lovingly attending to the green leaves. All looked happy to be working.
So vast was their garden Angelo did not see the Abbot approach him.
"Greetings, stranger. I am Anael, the Abbot of this monastery." Angelo turned to face him. Anael the Abbot had a soft, lilting accent, unlike the strong guttural ones with which he had grown familiar.
"And I am Angelo, sent forth from Rome on investigation from the Sacra Congregatio Indulgenliarum et Sacrarum Reliquiarum." The Abbot nodded as he continued. "I was sent to locate some brethren who were sent near here but have since disappeared." Angelo described the two men in detail to the Abbot. "Did they pass here on their travels? We have not heard word of them since they arrived on your island, mayhaps they found a holy mission worthy of haste?"
He watched the Abbot as he stroked his light beard and thought. After a pause, he shook his head. "I am very sorry, Angelo, but I do not recognize any man of that description. However, this whole monastery and I will assist you in your investigation. We have found many a sheep that have wondered afar from the flock."
-•-
Journal of Angelo of the Sacra Congregatio
February 21st
Arrived at destination. Quiet monastery. Everyone seems engaged, deep in thought. Met Abbot. Anael. Confessed that brethren have not been seen. Enthused to help. Showed me the grounds. Acres and most of it potatoes. Repast of potato bread and potato soup. Took lodgings with the other monks, have own room with bed and desk. Must conserve ink and candlelight. Will inquire of another quill on the morrow.
-•-
After writing in his journals, Angelo knelt by his bed to pray. His elbows were poked by hay but he soon settled himself into calmness as he pressed his palms together. He whispered as psalm: "Do good to your servant, according to your word, O Lord. Teach me knowledge and good judgment, for I believe in your commands," he started. He finished his psalm and sent his plea to God.
"Please assist me in my endeavors. I am in a foreign country but I am never lost with you by my side. Help me find the truth, help me find your sons. Please . . . give me a sign that I am searching in the right direction. Amen."
He stayed kneeled for awhile, thinking upon his missive. Finally, he felt tired enough to sleep.
Angelo stood and stared transfixed at his desk. There, by his journals, grew a soft light from the stub of the candle that guttered and flickered as he was writing. It started off dim, but grew in intensity and threw off a rosy light. The flame rose off the candle and hovered above the desk. It alighted into the air headed towards the ceiling. Angelo watched as it slowly reached the stones above him and disappeared.
"Thank you," he whispered as he crawled into bed.
-•-
Journal of Angelo of the Sacra Congregatio
February 23rd
Am invigorated for investigation. Rose early. Found that Abbot was away to local village. Talked to every monk working in garden. Tentative to converse and nothing to say. Engrossed in thoughts or distracted by work. Same report. Have not seen either man. Gave up and talked to head gardener. Learned more about mould than knew ever existed. Baked potato and rye for repast.
-•-
Angelo was exhausted by the time night came around. He prayed, though not in depth, and gratefully climbed into bed.
He dreamed.
He dreamt that he was lying down in a meadow, under a tree with flowing leaves. Angelo felt peaceful and contented, warm in the intermittent sun and breeze.
Above him appeared a woman. Gleaming hair woven of night with large luminous eyes, she stared down at him. She was smiling. He sat up abruptly and she shifted away. He had no words, for he had never encountered a beauty such as hers before. She was pale yet dark at the same time. She was suffused with a warm light and he found that he could not look away as she searched his face.
She said one word before she fled, long dark hair trailing behind her. One note of a song before she ran away. He watched her as she became smaller in the distance.
"Liliana," he said when he awoke to the cresting sun.
Part Two: Nondum Amabam, Et Amare Amabam
Journal of Angelo of the Sacra Congregatio
February 27th
Strange dreams after apparition. Why strange woman? Why now? Working dawn to dusk. Tired. Nothing more of Lucio or Gaetano. Tried to find nearest village; clear directions but got lost. How? Must find guide when have more time.
-•-
Night after night, she came to him in dreams. Shyly at first, skirting his dream peripherals, but after a few nights of games, became brazen.
Angelo stepped into a clearing. Their tree, as he came to recognize it, was glorious in the golden sun.
Liliana swung idly on a wooden swing. She was barefoot and he watched her flex her smooth calves to deepen the stroke. Her hair and dress flew about her, lapping about her knees when she descended downward and trailed after her as she arched upward.
"You will never find them if you go about like this," Liliana said, dulcet tones floating above him. "Mayhaps they do not want to be found?"
Angelo shook his head calmly. It was, after all, his dream. His will.
She continued. "Yes. Just think of it. The lost sheep of the flock that are unwilling to be culled by the great shepherd in the sky. One must wonder what kind of greener grasses they are eating, which sweeter waters they are drinking to rival your small little enclosure. Do they enjoy the freedom from captivity, do you think? Is it so exquisite that they would hide from the wolf in sheep's clothing?"
He turned to leave, walking away from the tree that was set ablaze from the sun and the woman who was ablaze with her blasphemy.
Angelo heard her laugh. So confidant, so self-assured.
"What will you choose, when the choice is yours?" Liliana asked after him. Angelo steeled himself and continued walking.
-•-
Another night. Another appearance. This time she was on her knees on the ground, picking flowers. Liliana pulled roughly on a simple white daisy and wove it into a chain. Angelo sat down across from her.
"I am beginning to look forward to these talks of ours. Although you stay silent. No matter though. You will be protesting enough at the end. If you understood what is taking place, you would best run screaming into the woods. My kind is far too beguiling than that." She linked the last stem to the first flower, completing a circle. "I mean, what is it that makes you stay there, transfixed? Are you being polite? Curiosity? Fear? Is it fear?" She shuffled over to him on her knees and placed the daisy crown on his head and kissed his brow.
"There. You are my prince of fools now. Don't forget, the coronation shall be soon."
-•-
Liliana was waiting for him this night.
He drifted off to sleep and awoke, in his dream, lying down, his head upon her lap. She caressed his hair softly. Cupping his face lovingly, she leaned in closer to bestow a velvety kiss on his lips.
"You should wake now," she purred. "For tonight, I start to exist for you."
Angelo woke suddenly, shivering in his nudity. There, on his bare chest, paced Liliana, five inches high.
He tried to sit up but found he could not. The fog of sleep was rapidly giving way to roiling anger.
"What trickery is this?" he demanded in a whisper, for he had remembered slipping on his winter sleeping garments. Angelo struggled to get up again but he was paralyzed.
"My kind do not deal in trickery," Liliana retorted. "We know very old magicks, that is all."
"If you do not know God's Will, then you know nothing," he snarled at her. Unmoved, she memorized her new and physical body on his bare chest. He watched her little form as she raised her hand to flick her diaphanous hair. She licked her index finger and slowly trailed it down her chest, encircling a hardening nipple.
"You are a vile creature," he growled through clenched teeth.
Liliana only looked at him plaintively in response. Her hands began the sensual descent of her long torso, the flat yet curving belly, and down to her nefarious sex.
If only I was in control of my body, he swore to himself, I would close my eyes and pray askance from my Lord.
I love you, O Lord, my strength. The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer, my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge. He is my shield and the horn of my salvation, he started praying.
She slipped her middle finger inside her slit and he could pray no more. He watched her, trapped, mesmerized, as she pleasured herself on his ribcage. His cock, unbidden, responded. It rose from his belly in a graceful arc, hard and pulsating. Her hips moved rhythmically against her splayed hand. Her other hand lingered at one full breast, kneading, rolling, pinching.
She threw her head back with a great contented sigh. He felt his body burn as he concentrated on her fingers working frantically now. There was the form of sharp fangs as she bit her lip, letting loose a moan.
Her cries became louder in his own ears. He feared one of his brethren barging in, discovering him thusly, but no one came. Cries became screams as she crescendoed into orgasm. He felt more than saw a slight shudder travel through her body before she sank to her knees. Thighs still clasping her fingers, her breath came raggedly. She swept an errant hair from her forehead with her hand.
Even though propped uncomfortably on his pillow, Angelo could still see her sitting on her heels. She gently removed her hand out of her nether lips and lifted it to her other pair of lips. She coyly sucked her index finger in her mouth, making soft slurping sounds. He watched her as she lapped clean her own juices, like a smug kitten.
"God save your soul," he whispered when she was done, when he was able to make a sound, as she was drying her hand on her thighs.
She stopped and looked up. Commanding his gaze she said, "I have no need for God when I have you."
She stood up suddenly and walked the length of his chest, becoming more transparent each step she took. At his chin, she completely disappeared.
He felt a soft kiss on his lips as lethargy crept back in. Before he drifted of to sleep, however, he heard her whisper, "And I will have you."
Part Three: Oculi Plus Vident Quam Oculus
(I've decided to pick up this blog again. It's been dormant for so long, gathering dust, collecting moss. It's been a long time since the erotic side of me needed to be expressed through words; whatever was left from my actions got siphoned quickly through my other blog, the 101. I've always wanted to continue these writings but it always felt like such a large task to tackle without desire.
I think the greatest artists of erotic art become aroused from their craft, which is proof positive of the innate intimacy and eroticism of their work.
I'll finish the first story, but I wanted to introduce the next with a history lesson. The setting of these strange lovers' tryst is a house called Amarna. The dusty archao-phile within me squirms at the thought of incorporating times and locations of rich history and infusing them with erotic stories that are better than any other that you would find in a Hustler, because they are an act of imagination as well. They arouse body and mind, finding freedom inside your imagination, wildly cavorting in the most intensely sexual way your mind can form. I believe very much in the power of words; words that confess, words that convey, words that spark, words that satisfy. Sometimes I feel as if I have the gift of tongues that work twofold on separate senses. But, of course, that sounds a little pompous.
The father of the famous Tutankhamun (ne Tutankaten) perhaps was Akhenaten and very possibly the son of the second wife, Kiya. The wife of Akhenaten was the woman of mystery and legend, Nefertiti, known for her beauty. The royal couple overthrew Egypt's greatest and oldest religion, dedicating the country to the sun god Aten and enraging the traditional Amun priests. They were the ones with the direct communication to the god Aten, and must be praised and worshipped as gods themselves. Depictions of the time do not show Egypt's subjects bowing, rather they groveled. Through turmoil and intrigue, the couple decided to move the nation's capital of centuries, Thebes, to a location remote and impenetrable in the desert. Mountains surrounded three sides and the Nile dominated the last side. The couple erected a city within the desolation within years and went to inhabit it. This was Amarna.
I believe my intention for creating a setting in rememberence of such a city is to convey the sense of solitary success, far removed from the rest of the world, a place of escape but also of creation. And like the royal couple, my Amarna will be a place of old ghosts and regret, a bastion in paradise that never saved them.
History is uncertain of the royal couples' fate. Akhenaten died of mysterious circumstances and queen Nefertiti, a shrewd and calculating co-regent of the throne, perhaps went on to be the first female Pharoah of Egypt, complete with pharoanic beard. Her story is one eclipsed by her step-son/son-in-law, who was made famous by Carter who was funded by Lord Canaveron.
So, that is Amarna. But the story, the characters, were something I've been contemplating and developing for a few years now.)
Like langorous lovers, this site will unfurl into full gloriousness for you soon. We have been putting on our stockings for you, applying our lipstick, curling our hair, and slipping on our best string thongs for you . . . or, breaking out the champagne, lighting the candles, and setting the mood music.
I know you have been struggling in your pants for me to begin.
And I also know that anticipation is the best foreplay.
So be our best puppy dog and be patient for me . . . I promise something incredible.