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Dust Chronicle #2 In the nothingness, his mind spins… night… day, obsession blurring all distinction. It is impossible for him to think of anything but diffusing images of her. The rain on his windshield, glistening beads, cling desperately until their weight breaks the bond. Tiny rivulets leaving him, there for a moment then gone as quickly as his thoughts. His concentration splintered by a thousand transparent temporary worlds. Passing headlights shatter this scattered reverie, focus more intent, he begins to methodically replay his triumph… She with such power, such magnificent beauty entering his office so soundlessly, the intoxicating smell of her, announced the arrival. Her perfume, how often had he touched himself to the point of pain, never worthy, never allowing release? he is beneath her station, his meekness, his imperfection forever restraining, beyond mere rope or chain. he looks up as she tosses more work across his desk, ordering him to stay until it is finished. Then, in that most perfect of moments… his voice, an attitude so unlike him emerged. It wasn’t loud. Possessing the absolute power evoked by the quietest of tones, he looked her straight in the eye and said, “No!” Without hesitation He added, “my door was closed, and you entered without knocking”. She faltered, with a keen perception previously unknown, he actually saw her wither. Her chin, the proud beauty descending, her eyes, exotic blue violet seas, muting, crashing down and away from him. With all pretense of familiar territory gone, uncontrollably she released a new scent. Somehow in this new landscape, this awakened state of his, he could smell, even taste it upon the air. From somewhere, he heard his own voice ordering her to remove her panties and to present them to him. From an equally uncharted place, her hands responded as though they belonged to him, lifting the skirt, finding the waist band, they rapidly began to slide the panties down. His voice sealed her transformation in one simple command. “Slowly”… realizing her systematic reduction had begun, with tears she complied. His mind throbbed with boldness, quickly disposing of any feeble notion of empowerment. For that was weakness, far too temporary, too mutual and imprecise for this transformation. He was flying… no longer bound by himself. Looking at her, He was the stream and she was a leaf cast from some forgotten tree. Floating on his waters, she belonged to him, she would move as he chose, go where he directed. Painfully deliberate in the inspection of her panties, feigning disgust, he readily delighted in the scents of her pussy …that which she applied and that which she had released. He explored her fresh dampness spreading through the fabric’s weave. More than anything he felt exalted by her humility; but, he knew there was something else. It was her shame that was intoxicating. So with great display, He held before her this ‘soiled’ garment… her offering, the first sacrifice… as though it was nothingness… He let slip streaming from fingers into the wastebasket. Finding great pleasure in reducing her consequence with each gesture, He smiled with lips forming another word… she was lost, dizzy in the rising flush, collapsing into a dark void… only to be rescued by a voice. a voice that seemed to catch her fall, a voice that gave substance in the crushing absence of her. impossibly, it was His voice inside her head, it was His voice that calmed and restored. “Crawl”. For her to do such a primitive thing, journey to some lower being, a command freeing her from complexity. Crawl- with one will, His will, with no ability or desire to resist, she was to become his thing, and she sank to her hands and knees. her obedience, becoming more refined through each extension of arm and leg, the scratch of the cheap carpet under palm, the reddening burn upon knee gave grace and meaning to her movement. she was changing with every inch of progress round desk to him, shedding the past being. this dance was slow and deliberate because (s)He willed it to be. instinctively she understood to sustain and enhance the explosion of each synapse, this birth was not a thing to be rushed. arriving before him, she was radiant in simplicity, she was a vessel with no purpose greater than to be filled by him. without word, or glance, she knew she must place him in her mouth, to pleasure and drink from him. His hunger was hers, her thirst was His. she opened his pants, discharging a primitive sound at the sight of his cock, the feel of him in her hands. His smell enthralled her as she took His head with her lips, opening her mouth ever so slightly drawing Him in. His crown inside, she suckled with the contentment of a nursing baby. He said nothing. she was beyond need of words. pursed extensions followed by contractions of her lips drew more of Him into her mouth. each pull, each moan measuring the progressive descent of her head upon him. she was becoming nothing, her body dissipating, no longer aware of flooded thighs. a mouth enveloping him was all there was, a singular consciousness independent of time and space. lips vibrant with their affection, tongue wet velvet, throat pulsing with anticipation. she is no more, she has become His thing. had she been conscious of that moment, her mind would have known perfection. But she is no more. with furious abandon mouth now fucks Him… He remains motionless… His cock is slick with foam from devotion… each ravenous stroke mixing more of His/her juices. This thing she is, feels the rising heat, it feels the distended vessels in his shaft… the surging contractions. and the mouth slows to meet the rhythms of his now inevitable explosion. He is cumming… each wave fills her mouth… fulfills her purpose… the sounds, the screams His/hers are death and birth… of life… They become no more than the timeless dreams of interstellar dust. rain… He sits in his car fingers idly drumming the wheel, engine running but he is unable to move, he cannot bring himself to find the gear, to find the pedal, to find his way home. His mind is consumed with nothing but his dream. She stands frozen on the parking lot. Her clothes drenched by the cold waters, motionless in this ritual cleansing. Something within compels this washing of all artifice, her power and position diminishing, leaving her. Just below her mind’s surface is some ancient understanding that she must be clean for him. She dreamt of him, of her, and she has changed. Something very powerful, very deep controls her now. She is no more… she is new. Hair dripping wet, clothes soaked through to chilled raised skin, shivering… finally prepared for him, she wills herself to walk toward his car, is he waiting for her, she wonders… Ł ©2011 |
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