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She lay there, unrepentant. I have devised a thousand tortures, wrought a thousand dooms, destroyed a thousand hopes in a night's work. I was called to my duty, summoned to my ritual. This little jewel, this perfect, little jewel. She had called me from my wanderings, cried out for me to deliver her, lifted her hand to the Lord, and the Lord had visited me upon her.
I took the bloody bear from her, and led her in the beginning steps of the dance which she desired. She called out for me, cried for me to fill her void, to whirl her away, to chase, to hunt, to...feed. I clasped her soul close to mine, as the staccato rhythm of the lightning crashed around us. I bent her to me, clasped her hips to mine, her clothes clung to her, the icy water dripping.
She was still afraid.
To the window we went, to stare into the storm, to let the lightning fill us, to dare the thunder. With a single strike, I destroyed the pane separating us from the storm, and held her, trembling, against my wrath.
Her flight was a thing of beauty, that awoke a rage in me so great, I shall never again feel its like. The depth of the storm, the towering thundercloud, the lightning caressed mud, these drove me insane, or sane, or chaotic, or clear. Shirtless, I screamed to the wind to release me, to allow me to reave. My chest heaving, mist from the evaporating water billowing I unfolded, and flew into the face of the storm. My scream matched hers in depth and terror.
But I am not unfamiliar with terror.
I floated to her tenderly, and stroked her, as I gently turned her over, face-down in the mud. My hands, tanned and lean, the fine musculature apparent in the sudden flashes of the storm's fury, caressed her back. I touched her, feeling her icy flesh through her clothes, the knotted muscles, the subdued, hitching sob. I stood above her, looking down; angel in the mud.
She still didn't understand how much she needed this, how much she wanted it. Her breathing grew deeper, more strained, as I sang to her in her own language, making cooing noises and matching my own rising passion to hers.
I caressed her back, tore away the cloth.
she moaned, as my hand slid up her back, along each knob of her spine, tracing the Kundalini trail of fire, drawing up her essence. At last, she was truly participating in the ritual, that delicious mix of fury and vengeance, of chaos put to purpose. Up her back to the entrance, the wound, the rood the rede, the wing, the scar, the flesh turned spirit turned body turned blood.
Blood.
Blood.
As I drank from her, deeply, from my cupped hands, a fire rose in the storm. People out on the plains could see the red glow for miles,
"lightning musta hit and started a fire."
A fire that rose from my belly and through my chest and across my long, wiry arms, though my fingers and shot down to my toes, through my boots and up my jeans. I lowered my head, face covered by the rain and drank my fill from her.
I had never...
I did not know....
I lifted my bloody mouth, grasped both her wrists and drew her hands out to their farthest reach, forcing her deeper into the mud, my thrusting tongue deep within the scars, drawing her into me into her and rising to the storm, and the mud that was the prairie beneath her, breathed deeply, held her scent in its and mouth...
and smiled.
and the storm raged on.
copyright 1995 by David Micko
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