It's the spiritual sequel to a short story I wrote for a class last year, and was an attempt to make an erotic story that wasn't erotic. If that makes any sense.
If you've delicate sensibilities, this story may offend. I'd specify how but it'd ruin it.
And in the Garden, Snake Was Charming
In the garden, the sweet smell of exotic fauna hangs in the air. No breeze blows here; it is always humid, warm, almost like a film hanging on the world. I wipe the sweat from my brow, and breathe in the thick air. I have been standing in this spot for twelve days now, observing a single blossom on a tree, purple with specks of blue. My Lady has put me here to observe it, and to make sure its beauty does not wane. I focus my eyes on it, desperately attempting not to blink, that I may miss a moment of the pristine beauty that my Lady wishes to document. Twelve days have I stood here, and twelve more I would gladly give without a second thought. For my Lady Lust is a beautiful and just mistress, and if she is to reward me with even a second of her presence, it will have been worth it and more.
I may have had a family once. I no longer remember. None of that matters. One day I caught her scent, and it led me to her garden. I have seen her but once, when I first arrived, and that moment plays over and over in my head. The leaves parted slowly, and through the thick mists that move through the garden like a serpent, slow and thick, I saw her, and my heart filled until it overflowed, and from that moment I knew only her, only my Lady, and nothing and no one else could ever matter more.
She is perfection. Wild, crimson locks frame a face whose form could not be sculpted by the very gods themselves, were they to try a thousand thousand times. There is no word that yet exists for the color of her eyes; cities have risen and fallen in the time it would take to properly describe the hue, to say nothing of the depth. Her body, framed in blood-red silk, is like the desert, gentle rolling dunes forming perfect curves, with ice-pale skin that betrays none of the heat she radiates. Her scent is of rose wine, late nights, and of sex, uninhibited and primal; once you have tasted of it, you are hers. And of course, her lips, fresh-plucked cherries draped in morning dew, lips that have sent countless men to their deaths. Lips which release a voice for which I would crawl to the ends of the Earth to hear but one word. Her word is golden. Her word is law. Her word is my beginning and end, and I will do anything to hear it.
When I finally hear it, a dull echo in the back of my head, my eyes begin to shiver as tears fall down them. Already my heart has begun to beat faster, my breath shallow. I feel a stirring below my stomach, and I know it is time. Time to see my Lady. To taste of her fruit, and to fulfill a desire so strong I abandoned everything I knew for the hope of obtaining it.
My Mistress's sanctuary is bathed in flowers, myriad colors adorning the vines and the trees. Before I enter I catch her scent, that marvelous, transcendent, life-changing scent. She is without adornment, her naked form stretched out on a bed of grass. It is like seeing the sun for the first time, as if Saurvold were descending from the heavens and casting his divine light over me. But she is no god. No, she is much more than that. Her eyes pierce my soul, and with but one glance I know that I am to lay with her.
A single finger grazes my chest as I kneel before her. Her nail grazes my skin, and as the tip of her finger makes contact with my bare skin my vision blurs and my head swims. It is as I imagined; no, it is more than that. My Lady wastes no time, grabbing my head and pulling me to her. She kisses me so deeply, so powerfully, that I cannot help but imagine time stopping, that nothing in this realm can exist to surpass this moment, and perhaps that is what happens. Men were not meant to hold congress with my Lady Lust; her every touch is ecstasy, her every movement a miracle, and as I am consumed in her glory and her warmth, a distant voice in my mind weeps, for no joy could ever equal this, no worldly experience could ever stir my heart, that I have known Lust's sex.
My Lady is, as one could only expect, a master of lovemaking. With the ease of one who has only the slightest interest in her work she moves, building up the pressure until I believe I will surely explode, only to send it back to the beginning once more, controlling me to suit her needs. I am her willing servant, and as we lay together I see worlds, the myriad galaxies of the universe laid bare before my eyes, our intercourse unlike anything mortal man has known. Even as the smell of burning skin rises to my nostrils I am bathed in a pleasure so all-consuming I feel almost separated from my body.
As I feel the burning on my chest I begin to look down, but her hand grabs my jaw and thrusts it upwards, so that I can only glare at the canopy through teary eyes as she sears her crest into my chest. The scent of her poison mixed with my rotting flesh threatens to end my consciousness, but still she continues our act, flooding my body with please as she places her entire hand on my chest, excreting a poison that I can feel tearing into my skin, and tears flood from my eyes as waves of pain and pleasure wash over me, coming over and over until I can no longer tell the difference.
She keeps me awake as she moves her hand downwards, and now I can feel my insides boiling, my skin melting. She stops just short of the area where our bodies join before reaching tenderly into the left side of my torso, tearing and burning through muscle and sinew and bone. She wraps her fingers around my heart, and even now she continues our congress, keeps me alive and awake and aware, and I feel every move she makes as she begins to rip my heart from her chest, slowly, methodically. It is ecstasy beyond measure, torture beyond reckoning. As my eyes close I still think only of her, my perfect Mistress, and I hope I have been good for her.
As the sun begins to set, dull pink light filtering through the trees, Lust licks the blood from her fingers, covered in bits of the organ she has just consumed. She gazes at her own body, perfect but for the bits of her former servant that still lie on her. She gets up gingerly, sauntering to a dark, clear, pool of water, the only part of her garden that offers any solace from the oppressive, tropical heat. As she bathes the blood, skin, and bone from her body, she revels in her own beauty, spending hours making herself clean. She smiles to herself, and takes stock of the men in her garden, examining them and judging them and ordering them.
Ah yes. He will do nicely.
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