The Fool - Chapter V
March 6th 2007 15:12
He opens his eyes. The candles flicker, the cards sit lifeless, Lola smiles.
He stands up abruptly, bumping the table and knocking the cards to the floor. He staggers two steps back. “What the fuck is going on?” he says raggedly, fighting to slow his heartbeat. The tarot cards flip end over end in midair, gliding back and forth and raining gently across the ground. His head is cleared somewhat, but it still swims in a vague fashion, he still feels as though he is submerged in some thick viscuous syrup. It's like the smoke in the air is so thick he's floating in it.
She looks at him, silent, the smile on her lips. As she stands up, he realises that for the first time he can make out her face in the dim light. She is a young woman, and phenomenally, darkly beautiful. Her smile is a cold, sensual promise.
Still she doesn't reply, the silence heavy in the milling gloom, the restless drifting smoke. And he feels an odd affinity, like their breath is intertwined, one breath passing endlessly back from his lungs to hers. The air itself seems to sigh and curl itself around him, some ethereal extension of the woman's body. He can smell her. He's breathing her in. He can feel her against his skin. When she turns and walks softly out, breezing through a bright-coloured curtain standing in the black, he does not hesitate long before he follows.
He pushes the curtain aside and takes a step through, feeling as though he is moving through a dream. His pulse races, his blood is liquid fire sliding through his veins. The bedroom is as dim as the chamber before it. The only furnishing he sees is a four-poster bed. The light seems to come from no one explicit source but is merely a gentle warm orange glow, emanating from the stone.
Her back to him, her cloak drops and puddles silently around her feet. He takes another step forward. She breezes through the filmy transparent drapes that hang from the side of the bed. They're rolling restlessly, as though in a breeze, shades of soft mauve shifting and billowing gently. Their contortions form words and pictures, traced and then fading in the heavy smoke haze.
His mouth is dry, his eyes ache. He can see only a shape, a formless silhouette behind a shifting curtain, coiled in the centre of the bed.
His clothes feel light. His whole body feels like a gentle breeze. He seems to drift toward the bed without any conscious decision to do so, his feet carrying him soundlessly.
The soft purple shadow of the drape billows out, around, it swallows him, embraces him, and he's on the bed, reaching for her shoulder as she sits facing away from him. For a moment he feels the deepest, blackest terror, a dread certainty in his gut that she will turn and reveal the face of the old woman, smiling in that small way she has, like she knows something you don't. The feeling eases and dissipates as he sees her, and he gazes into her eyes, right down into their everlasting lightless centres, and he's falling into them, end over end over end.
Through no conscious action of his own his shirt falls away, he lies atop her and he can feel his skin against hers, an unearthly suppleness that feels at once warm and hollow to his belly, his roving fingertips. He's breathing her in. He's naked and he can feel every inch of her against his body. His lips brush her neck, her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. He's inside her and she gasps in his ear, a long wordless whisper that resounds, slides in his mind. Her long fingernails trail down his back. His blood flows out of him and through her, heated and circulated and returned back to his veins, an endless pulsing cycle of fusion. Where there were two, there is one. Her legs wrap around his, her thighs rubbing up and down his own. Her ebony hair lies spreading from her head in every direction like infinite rays from a black sun. He grasps her flesh and can feel the contact in his own. Their sensations intertwine, blurring the line between his and hers. She's breathing a sultry moan in his ear, and he can feel it coming from all around him, from every direction. His heart pounds in her chest. When he raises his head to move his lips to another part of her body he sees that she is still wearing the little sectretive smile, that warm heavy sigh from between her teeth, and even as he is gripped by waves of paranoia and confusion he is incensed and drives himself into her, feels her sharp intake of breath fill and warm every cell of his body. He is not sure he could seperate himself from her, he feels fused to her in some terrible and fundamental way. Her nails tear through his sweaty hair, they gouge furrows down his back. He feels thick hot blood run in rivulets down his skin and onto her. He closes his eyes. She whispers sweet words from beneath him. He feels as though his cock is packed with double-0 buckshot and that he and her will explode and die wrapped into one another, blood and breath and sweat and skin. And he grips her shoulder, and she grinds against him, then there is a rush of blood and breathlessness and light and pressure and then there is nothing, emptiness, blackness, infinity.
At first he's aware that there is a tiny pinprick of light, just an infinitesmal bright dot like a single pixel on a television screen. And just that makes him aware that he is conscious again to some degree, and his mind cries out in alarm, a screaming harbringer of danger that has saved his life more times than he would care to remember. The tiny dim light of his awareness is reaching and clawing its way up. Some deep part of his mind commands him firmly, open your eyes.
He stands up abruptly, bumping the table and knocking the cards to the floor. He staggers two steps back. “What the fuck is going on?” he says raggedly, fighting to slow his heartbeat. The tarot cards flip end over end in midair, gliding back and forth and raining gently across the ground. His head is cleared somewhat, but it still swims in a vague fashion, he still feels as though he is submerged in some thick viscuous syrup. It's like the smoke in the air is so thick he's floating in it.
She looks at him, silent, the smile on her lips. As she stands up, he realises that for the first time he can make out her face in the dim light. She is a young woman, and phenomenally, darkly beautiful. Her smile is a cold, sensual promise.
Still she doesn't reply, the silence heavy in the milling gloom, the restless drifting smoke. And he feels an odd affinity, like their breath is intertwined, one breath passing endlessly back from his lungs to hers. The air itself seems to sigh and curl itself around him, some ethereal extension of the woman's body. He can smell her. He's breathing her in. He can feel her against his skin. When she turns and walks softly out, breezing through a bright-coloured curtain standing in the black, he does not hesitate long before he follows.
He pushes the curtain aside and takes a step through, feeling as though he is moving through a dream. His pulse races, his blood is liquid fire sliding through his veins. The bedroom is as dim as the chamber before it. The only furnishing he sees is a four-poster bed. The light seems to come from no one explicit source but is merely a gentle warm orange glow, emanating from the stone.
Her back to him, her cloak drops and puddles silently around her feet. He takes another step forward. She breezes through the filmy transparent drapes that hang from the side of the bed. They're rolling restlessly, as though in a breeze, shades of soft mauve shifting and billowing gently. Their contortions form words and pictures, traced and then fading in the heavy smoke haze.
His mouth is dry, his eyes ache. He can see only a shape, a formless silhouette behind a shifting curtain, coiled in the centre of the bed.
His clothes feel light. His whole body feels like a gentle breeze. He seems to drift toward the bed without any conscious decision to do so, his feet carrying him soundlessly.
The soft purple shadow of the drape billows out, around, it swallows him, embraces him, and he's on the bed, reaching for her shoulder as she sits facing away from him. For a moment he feels the deepest, blackest terror, a dread certainty in his gut that she will turn and reveal the face of the old woman, smiling in that small way she has, like she knows something you don't. The feeling eases and dissipates as he sees her, and he gazes into her eyes, right down into their everlasting lightless centres, and he's falling into them, end over end over end.
Through no conscious action of his own his shirt falls away, he lies atop her and he can feel his skin against hers, an unearthly suppleness that feels at once warm and hollow to his belly, his roving fingertips. He's breathing her in. He's naked and he can feel every inch of her against his body. His lips brush her neck, her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. He's inside her and she gasps in his ear, a long wordless whisper that resounds, slides in his mind. Her long fingernails trail down his back. His blood flows out of him and through her, heated and circulated and returned back to his veins, an endless pulsing cycle of fusion. Where there were two, there is one. Her legs wrap around his, her thighs rubbing up and down his own. Her ebony hair lies spreading from her head in every direction like infinite rays from a black sun. He grasps her flesh and can feel the contact in his own. Their sensations intertwine, blurring the line between his and hers. She's breathing a sultry moan in his ear, and he can feel it coming from all around him, from every direction. His heart pounds in her chest. When he raises his head to move his lips to another part of her body he sees that she is still wearing the little sectretive smile, that warm heavy sigh from between her teeth, and even as he is gripped by waves of paranoia and confusion he is incensed and drives himself into her, feels her sharp intake of breath fill and warm every cell of his body. He is not sure he could seperate himself from her, he feels fused to her in some terrible and fundamental way. Her nails tear through his sweaty hair, they gouge furrows down his back. He feels thick hot blood run in rivulets down his skin and onto her. He closes his eyes. She whispers sweet words from beneath him. He feels as though his cock is packed with double-0 buckshot and that he and her will explode and die wrapped into one another, blood and breath and sweat and skin. And he grips her shoulder, and she grinds against him, then there is a rush of blood and breathlessness and light and pressure and then there is nothing, emptiness, blackness, infinity.
At first he's aware that there is a tiny pinprick of light, just an infinitesmal bright dot like a single pixel on a television screen. And just that makes him aware that he is conscious again to some degree, and his mind cries out in alarm, a screaming harbringer of danger that has saved his life more times than he would care to remember. The tiny dim light of his awareness is reaching and clawing its way up. Some deep part of his mind commands him firmly, open your eyes.
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