Happy New Year

2008

To all my wonderful blogging friends, I wish you all the very best in the year to come. Peace and Joy to all.

Fan Site Update: The Sex Chapters

The Sex Chapters. All neatly listed and linked by the ever faithful story mistress of hair dark and heart deep. Enjoy.

From Close Your Eyes:

Yul drove the back of her head into the down pillow like a mother in the throes of childbirth. Her wet lower lip trembled as Mairi’s mind eased into her centers of pleasure and pain with intent on pain, with quiet prejudice to push Yul to those dark corners of her sexual soul beyond the horizons of her experience, to places only a Chatelaine could take her. My frailing Janus, Yul thought (screamed) as Mairi entered (violated) her mind, forcing (raping) her way in, beotch slap me into frailing whoredom you Janus forsaken cu--.

Mairi heard it, saw it, felt it from the inside out. Yul spasmed. Mairi pushed deeper, the pain increased. Yul tensed, hard, harder, her muscles straining. Her eyes opened as if to say what the frail. Then Mairi mind slapped her as hard as Rog had ever done with hand while rubbing her warmly lubricated thumb and index fingers together, feeling the thin membrane few had felt and massaging (melting) the pain into pleasure. Yul gasped, relaxed, and gasped again. She was having trouble breathing, a feeling of falling, of being out of control, warmly, embarrassingly, flooded her senses. Her mind raced to comprehend what her body was feeling but she had no frame of reference to describe what Mairi was doing to her now.

“Easy now, my little beotch,” whispered Mairi, unbuttoning her blouse with her free hand, a distinct bluish glow slipping from the valley of her tight and taut amplitude. Yul started to speak but couldn’t. Mairi smiled. +You’ll talk when I’m ready for you to talk. Now let me see that tongue of yours, you know, the one Rog says he can’t live without.+

Mairi took the back of her index finger and ran it over Yul’s upper lip. +Come now, baby, let me see it. Show me that blue spear of pleasure and delight. Wrap it around my finger like a candy cane.+

Yul felt her lips part and her tongue slip between them and around Mairi’s finger. Slithering like the painted snake on her cheek, she licked Mairi’s finger with her long blue tongue.

+You miss him don’t you? You miss feeling his warmth beside you, inside you, like my fingers are now, taking you, in places, in ways you’ve allowed no one else. You want him back, here, with you?+

+Yes.+

+Close your eyes.+

Categories: Story, Mairi, Yul

411. In Warmth

Em nestled to Trev's side, her breath warm as sun across the plain of his chest. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, her ear suctioned upon his nippled bosom, his heart serenading, a private performance, with a rhythmic chorus. Her hair smelled of almond and images of vernal meadows and gushing pregnant springs, laughing and giggling down the mountain side, seemed as real in his mind as the head upon his torso.

Yul rolled to her side and Rog wrapped his stoutness to her conforming backside, tongue in groove, murmuring sighs as signal and standard. White stains of salt lay as evidence of labor exchanged, the warm commerce heeded, and Rog licked away like a tomcat grooming in the warmth of windowed sun. Moan as purr, Yul lifted one leg, and with a rotation of hip, as hand slides into glove, eyes closed, lips pursed and warmness radiated from loin to cheek.

With a wave of her hand, her quarters drew silent and Kyra, in melanic leather sat her melanic chair before the melanic cosmos. Silence sounded, pulsed, with a cold warmth as if the universe was breathing, a parental witness to the play before its stage. Closing her eyes, she let what was be, and as her shoulders dropped so did the baggage of her conscience, and where breathing was labored, lightness flowed. Listening, she heard mother ocean blanket the whey sand of Valla with an azure argosy as scintillating as if the stars themselves were washed ashore (and she marveled at how the sight in her mind was not so unlike the sight before her window). As the breath, wave upon gentle wave reached and enveloped her porcelain toes with the soft warmth of a mother's arms, the sea as rocking chair, melodic like a lullaby. With each slow steady practiced breath, Kyra felt the cacophony of concerns settle as wayward shells burrowing in the sand and the water once cloudy became clear.

410. Sand Dunes at Midnight

Down the metal corridor another door was locked and comm turned off. Yul pushed her head, face down, into her pillow, her back arched like sand dunes at midnight, her arse upward, ripe as low hanging fruit. Words were gone, replaced with moans and grunts through gritted teeth, and lips were wet with the spume of desire impaled. Rog held her hips as one might hold a bull in the chute. Turgid and tumid, tight and taut, muscle hard and aching, pulsing and throbbing, a lance rigid and full disappeared and reappeared as a shadow on the wall and what appeared to be a flag slapped the shadowy facade as if whipped to and fro in a summer squall.

Yul grabbed the headboard, her arms spread as wings, as if to open her lungs, as if to open herself. Her bellowed breathing gulped air, driven by the furnace between her firm legs and with eyes half shut, watched, dreamlike, as the rhythmic dance of light and shadow seemed orchestrated, punctuated, hammered and pounded like primal drums before feast victorious.

Lifting her chest, the curve of her back deepened, and where the round of her moons shone in the soft light, the labor of Rog's domestication glistened as raindrops on wax. Steady and strong as a steam engine ascending under load, Rog worked his painful lust into hers with the vigor of a ranch hand roping calves before the coming storm. Her hips seemed small in his hands and his grip would leave its mark in the days to come, but passion knows neither consequence nor accounting. Past and future were held at bay on the alter of now, and with each thrust, with each pull and push, as rotation met rotation, slap greeted slap, and desire released nature's clear oil, heated with the friction of feral craving, his lubed piston, from glistening velvet head to oak rooted base, remained firm in purpose, intent willful, result encouraged.

409. Kiss My Eyes Shut

Bravo's restoration continued, although what was being improved or fixed was hard to tell. Trev, unshod, stood before the floor length window in Em's quarters, chest smooth and bare. Two years in space, and for all the cold quiet blackness, standing before the cosmos, as if standing before a gigantic movie screen, never ceased to humble or stir a childlike wonder at the beauty and vastness of it all. Even the most agnostic could not help but pause as nature presented its case of clockwork precision. The argument was old but the sight before the giant windows in each of Bravo's personal quarters, was not academic lecture, not inebriated barroom debate nor pulpit oration. The sight was, and remained, nothing short of a mind frail, as new with each viewing as fresh laid eggs in the rustic dawn.

Trev crossed his arms, his back (skin taut over lean muscle in fluent shapes of light and shadow) to the bed of repose behind him. Em slept on her side, one long leg, slightly bent, exposed from sheet as a dress with a deep cut, her breathing steady in the way contentment and happiness would breathe if they could. Her olivaceous skin, butter smooth with youth, as if the wind of the open seas had smoothed every edge with the master pottery hands of a loving mother nature, caring for a heart pure. Her hair lay like fine silk across her nude shoulder, her head nestled on pillow warm looking all the much like a mother bird sitting on her nest.

Trev turned, his shadow upon her sleeping frame. She looked like heaven. He took one step toward the bed and she moved as if to make room, the curve of her breast soft as the pillows, warm as her heart, called forth a cocoon of times long ago and promises to come. He stopped, caught between the view behind to match the view before as, with eyes closed and flickering with dreams, Em released a jugal rising sigh. Trev watched the bed as a man in the desert watches a shimmering oasis, and what should have been easy, became very hard.

Em stirred and with eyes still closed, stretched her arms as sheet on mountain sought the gravity of valley, natural as sunrise over forest verdant. The scent of almond waifed as a finger, inviting in words not spoken, a body hard to her bosom. Time could wait. Life was moments. This was a moment. She smiled. Trev moved as if beauty itself were pulling him forward. His mind intoxicated of chemistry, potent in ways distillers of snoot dreamed to replicate. The bed was still warm, the sheets still soft, and the light from the window, muted as winter morn, wrapped the pair in a lace of starlight. As if mare to stud, one set of arms opened and the other slid into fit, as boot to stirrup, as partners neither too long nor too short. And where lips were soft, they drew wet as the ambassadors of language bowed and curtsied in a dance known from before the time of leisure and abundance. Movements of grace flowed from mind to hand, from heart to finger, and where stress once aboded, the doors were thrown open and tension released.

Em ran her fingers through Trev's hair, her thumbs massaging his temples, her agile digits pulling him closer. Chest pressed chest and a warmth passed from flesh to flesh as two hearts became closer than the muscle and bone separating them. Running her hands over his brow, she kissed his eyes shut, licking the rise of his cheek, tasting what was once not hers. He arched his back as legs spread, his chest broad, her breath warm. From the nightstand, his comm blinked. The ship could have been on fire and he could not have cared less. Without losing his balance, he reached over, turned the comm off and in a single fluid motion, rolled Em onto her back, his head seeking to give what had been given, her mind whirling in the heaviness of her warm pouty lust.

408. Thoughts Misc: I

ed note: this is the first chapter (hopefully of many) I'm calling "Thoughts Misc" or "The Laziness of a Writer." Take your pick. Below, in no order are recent misc thoughts I've had with regard to The Story. Some may or may not happen. Some have happened in my mind, but will never be written, and so, for me, live as part of The Story and as such, perhaps, should be known to the reader. Likewise, from a literary point of view, I want to do something different, to follow no written rule of writing, and explore a path The Story has not seen. Hope you enjoy this interlude. Peace to all in the New Year to come.

John thanks Kyra for taking Ariel to Cait

He wonders if her ability is not a "child of the shells" deformity

He asks if he can visit with Cait too--Kyra says no, but she can take him to see her, only he will not be able to communicate or interact with her like Ariel did nor will she know he has been by

Cait's last moments torment John, his brain seared in the abject, senseless ugliness

Minute 7:28+ (Led Zeppelin's Achilles Last Stand) is the soundtrack of John moving with Kyra between realms (alt version would start at appox the 6:19 mark)

John asks Kyra "How did you guys survive 'The Pills,' You should have been dead."

Difference between the idea of something and the doing of that thing--would we want to do everything we fantasize about?

The idea of being a parent versus the reality of being a parent--where does self-delusion begin?

Trev dock story: girlfriend slaps him in the face

Kyra washes John's head and changes his bandages

Bravo comes into sight--Em asks Pinky to find ink and brush and she paints from Joy--still blind

Kyra asks Taren about Dr X

Kyra flashbacks to first using her "gift" on Hyneria

As Bravo comes into view, there is the idea of home, a return, and each member of the crew reacts differently--good and bad

The issue of who are the good guys and who are the bad guys comes up (Kulmyk/Arc'teryx)

Kyra reflects on having killed "the good guys" in what has been called "The Kyra Incident"

The idea of atonement--does one act from an idea?

407. Interview: A Thousand Pieces

T: Can you shed any light on John's behavior shortly after the return to Bravo?

K: He had no closure. With Cait. No period to mourn. No time to grieve. You've got to remember, within minutes of her death, Tranquility was set to self-destruct, an intense firefight occurred, and we fought like hell just to reach the transport. Nothing quite like knowing the ship you're on is about to explode to get your blood pumping. I think he was haunted by two images, both of which made him feel, impotent is not the word, I suppose made him feel powerless in the face of fate. John was not a man who had ever felt that way before. All his life, he imposed his will, shaped his outcomes with skill and cunning. And then, in a matter of minutes . . .

T: You lost me on "the two images." What was the second?

K: You could almost say there were three. Three images. The first, of course, was the sight when he rounded the corner and she was still alive. He didn't talk much about that, as I imagine you can understand. The second, and this you could see in his eyes, was leaving her behind, her body. We had no choice. There was no time. Everything moved too fast. But when we boarded the transport you knew he wanted to go back and get her. I think if it weren't for Ariel, he would have gone. And the two of them, would have been reunited.

T: Reunited?

K: If he had gone, he wasn't coming back. Even if he had wanted--and I don't believe, in that moment, he did--there was just no time. The best way to explain what we saw, perhaps, is like a dog, who is willing to run back into the burning house, to be with his master, even thought the master is dead, even thought he, the dog, knows he will die going back. John had that look. Those puppy dog eyes, I still remember them, glassy, and how when he looked at you, it felt like he was looking through you, as if he lived on a different dimension, as if he were seeing a world beyond our world. And who's to say, maybe he was.

T: And the third?

K: From the transport, we witnessed the explosion, of Tranquility. One didn't need to be Mairi to know what was going through his mind. He was trained under the code of 'leave no one behind.' Yet, in his mind, he had left her, abandoned, I believe, was the word he used. She would have no proper burial. There would be no dignity in the face of the horrific. And when the Tranquility exploded into a thousand pieces, of fire and debris, and what was once a magnificent vessel was but a fading flash in the eye, well, he just didn't look the same, as if the events had a cumulative effect, each breaking through a layer of strength, and with each breakage, he became more vulnerable, less able to cope, less able to repair, less able to see the world the way it was just hours before. I suppose one could say, as went Tranquility, so went his heart, and for all practical purposes, his soul too. Shattered. And you just don't put shattered back together again.

T: Did he have any idea The Brotherhood would be waiting on Bravo?

K: If he did, he never spoke of it. I would have thought the thought would have crossed his mind, but, and I don't think he would admit it, the man was in shock. In fact, I don't think he could even tell you what he thought at that time. Shock is like a magnifying glass. The object before your mind is all you see. It looks larger than it actually is and it blocks out everything else. He had no room for anything, and this is my opinion, but his own despair. So, no, on second thought, I don't think he thought of it.

T: And they wanted him to return with them to Kulmyk, to fight the good fight so to speak.

K: Yes.

T: But they wanted more than just him. They needed more than just John.

K: So it seemed, yes.