I.  Conquest

They meet by chance, in a crowded coffee-house: too many people sitting at too few tables.  He looks around the room, and finds her: attractive, young, projecting confidence that (to the careful observer) betrays some small inner insecurity.  And alone at her table, reading a book and making notes.  She wears a light coat — unseasonable, but practical for the over-air conditioned venue — and a stylish silk scarf knotted at her throat. He strides to her table, and asks apologetically whether he might join her?  She smiles shyly, and sees (or thinks she sees) a twinkle in his eye, something more than the patient and almost regretful smile of his own.

He sits with his coffee, and begins to his own book; he glances at hers, reads the title, and asks about it.  Soon they are deeply engaged: not only the book but art, politics, the nature of literature and how it informs life. Science, too, and even something about religion and philosophy. The breadth and depth of his knowledge compel her; something deep inside stirs to life, something she had long desired but thought unrealistic.  Until now.

They finish their coffees and leave together, stopping for groceries.  He carries the parcels, and she leads him back to her flat: clean, tidy, cozy. Sparely furnished, with plenty of natural light, a large bed — her one indulgence — and a couple of good reading chairs. She unpacks the groceries, he opens a bottle of wine; they drink briefly, and embrace: sweetly, passionately, hands and tongues exploring new and exciting terrain.

Slowly he leads her to the bed, where they sit in continued, continuous, unbroken osculation.  Limbs move about, knees and ankles finding their way to a perfect fit while slowly, sensuously, almost torturously, her clothing falls to the floor until only the scarf remains, a single article setting off her pale skin.

II.  Pestilence

Suddenly she is aware of her situation, her compromised and compromising position:  Who is this man, and how and why am I naked before him? She knows, in the back of her mind, the answers to all her questions; still, she struggles to sit up, to push him away.  As much as she feels lust, longing, desire; she hasn’t shed her outmoded feelings of shame, of modesty, of propriety.  And so she begins to push away, as he embraces her more closely.  There is little struggle between them, for with each kiss her conscious efforts fade as she falls into reverie, instinctively responds, shows him — with her response — her own needs, her own yearning, her long-suppressed and unfulfilled desire.

His touch inflames her; and so she alternately forgets herself and submits to her passion, and renews her internal struggle for composure, for propriety.   She is by turns pliable and rigid.  In the end repression loses, as it always does: and she lies limp, exhausted, dripping wet, and still incompletely possessed.  She yearns now to succumb, submit, be taken; and by conserving energy, renewing herself as waves of passion crash over and about her.

But it never works the way we think.  As she draws renewed energy from his tongue and fingers, she is suddenly aware of the cooler air on her neck.  Her scarf has wound its way around her wrists, binding them softly to the headboard while her feet are compromised by another soft restraint: a necktie?  She renews her struggle, more physical this time than internal, but by the diligent application of his tongue and fingers she soon acknowledges to herself that another surrender is inevitable, and not long off.

III.  Famine

Her hips thrust, an effort to press hard against his tongue, trying in vain to push her over the edge.  She has been — for hours, it seems, but who can tell? — in a heightened, hyper-aroused state while he tastes and teases: his tongue darts in and out, then is suddenly in her mouth where she can taste her juices, her sex, her own tumescence.  

Still, relief does not come: each time she is on the verge, atop the precipice, he seems to sense it and so he rises, regards her thoughtfully, kissing her neck and tugging, with his teeth, on her ear so that she remains not quite in place, but not quite progressing either: she continues to gain altitude, even after she is sure she can go no higher and must perforce climax and come down.

Somehow, though, in the space of whatever time has passed since the coffee-hosue, he knows her mind as well as her body.  And despite her entreaties, he remains clothed.  His face is covered in her juices, which she tastes each time he rises from his labor to kiss (and further inflame) her.  In her mind, she lowers her arms and pushes him into her, forcing his lips and tongue to satisfy her craving and quench her thirst.    Her body, though, remains bound: prey for his game, the subject of his experiment.  And this has a profound effect: soon he begins to shed his own clothes, but even before that she is aware of his desires too.  She feels him stiffen, pressing against her through his slacks.

He disrobes, and she feels him plunge into her — too briefly, for he sees the look on her face and withdraws the attack before she is ready. And so he continues to thrust and withdraw, making her sample their mingled scents before impaling her again, until she is sure she will faint from looking over the edge so often, without the release of free-fall.

IV.  Death

Higher she rises, soaring above the bed though still bound, hand and foot, to it.  She feels still the mounting tension within her, imagines that she will tear in two if it is not soon relieved.  And still he does not relent, offers her no real release or relief, just pressure building, building, building.  She feels his hands gripping her cheeks as he mounts her, his fingers leaving their imprints as she imagines she will (perhaps, one day) leave hers.  He senses, it seems, the pressure-cooker he has devised: she is the vessel, and the meal, and only he knows when it will be complete.  She sucks and licks, feels his tongue probe her deeply; and her eyes begin to roll back in her head.  She steels herself for the inevitable withdrawal of his tongue, and the too-long wait for his fingers to renew their probe.  Each time, she knows: here, at last, is relief; and each time her hopes are dashed, and raised again, the crescendo raising her to fever pitch.  She longs to dash against the rocks, to feel her body explode against itself, against him, and then collapse.  He senses it too, knows well her need, and seems to extract his pleasure from her torment.  For some reason, this too pleases her, and the very idea propelling her through the rapids.

She closes her eyes and tastes him, again.  Different this time; and yet the same, and familiar.   Her body relaxes slightly, and she waits for the wave of relief.

La Petite Mort arrives, finally, between thrusts.  Her body, ravaged by the storm, convulses and shakes, and she chokes on a sob of relief.  He kisses her neck, nuzzles her ear, and pulls her tighter to him, trying to still the spasms that overtake her, wave after wave, seeming to emanate from deep inside.  They gather strength, rise to the surface, and break, again and again, easing at last the long-pent tension within her.