Strange and Restless
Moonlight shone in through the window, refracted echoes of a hidden star playing along her naked body like the luminous etchings of some heathen astrologer. She sighed heavily as he traced unknown symbols inside of her with a bored hand, diligently attending to his labors like some tired and disaffected country priest shepherding a lost member of his fold through rites he had long ago lost all faith in.
He had no business being in her room that night, by rights should have been far away on other business, but from her labored whimpers it was clear she didn’t begrudge him his truancy. He ignored his misgivings and refocused, fiddling away inside of her with his trusty right hand (using an early prototype of the fingering form he would one day call ‘the necromancer’), while she wriggled before him with pleasure, oblivious to his internal struggle.
His fingers kept up a constant beat, strumming some mindless top 40 hit into her labia. Or some other body part, he had never paid much attention to female anatomy. She seemed happy though, maybe he was near her g-spot. Or her clitoris, or whatever. Fuck it. He passed the time planning his week, concentration often interrupted by increasingly urgent moans, trying to figure out his next couple days. He was just starting to develop a thesis statement for what was likely to be a particularly obnoxious history paper when she threw her head back towards him, eyes wild with lust. “I want you inside me,” she whispered in her idea of a sexy voice, the words practically hanging in the air like incense, evoking the initiation of some elder rite.
He looked at her naked body splayed out in front of him like the most enticing doormat he had ever seen. God those tits. He met her gaze and nodded slyly, “I just need a minute.” He hopped off her bed, slipped into her robe and walked towards the restroom, every inch of her imprinted in his brain. Let the record show that he was also quite erect, both from the generally sexual nature of the evening and also from the delightful sensation of the fuzzy robe tickling at his genitals.
He stood imperiously before the toilet, totally focused on the task at hand as he undid the robe’s belt and reached down to take a firm grasp and begin the dance. Knowing time was short he found his groove quickly, shuffling mentally through images of all the terrible things he wanted to do to her. He was halfway through a delicate role-playing scene: him wearing nothing but the laurel wreath of victory, standing triumphantly before the sacrificial altar upon which she lay spread-eagled before him, various cheeses artistically arranged about her torso, when he could feel the end approaching. A moment later, with a triumphant yell he spent himself into the porcelain crucible before him, his quest completed.
As always, the denouement of this exertion left him tired and morose, the wasting of his seed forever reminding him of how inadequately he himself put to use the spark of life within him. He settled his mind and returned to the bedroom. She lay there boldly, the very vision of temptation. “How do you want me,” she whispered, ever the brazen rogue.
“I’m sorry, I can’t stay.” He changed quickly into his clothes while she stared ahead, flummoxed. “Another time, Madame,” he told her, as he walked out the door and into the night.