First Night of the Poem of the Body

By jlacan

Wed, 15 Sep 2004

458 reads

First Night of the Poem of the
Body

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black .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 0in 0in">He hears the girl's
heart beating in her throat as she speaks to Him. The light is dim,
like sunlight filtered through rubies, like a dusk across water. He has
had her prepare for Him, and she has anointed her smooth body with
fragrance, letting her soul open and lower into her loins as she
touches and gathers herself. She is nearly ready. She speaks His name
and He pauses, listens. He understands what she says, that she asks
nothing but the sureness of His hand, the clarity of His gaze, and for
Him to know what beats in her chest and what takes her breath as she
speaks. He smiles as she speaks. His hand touches her
hair.

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black .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 0in 0in"> style="FONT-SIZE: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt">In His own
heart, He feels the newness of her, a surrender so total because it
falls to Him inside her great strength of soul and will, the delicate
quality of something so precious it must be prized and held closely,
held long, held gently and firmly. He can feel His breath catch, the
words slowing in His chest as He lets the moment surround Him,
enveloping her inside the beat of His pulse and letting it still, grow
calm and clear. He does not yet know her in the ways in which He will
know her, yet as she lowers herself to the red carpet, her face
lowering, her frame flowing down to lie straight and prone, abject and
tender, before Him, He feels her familiar, like a poem He knows by
heart, and feels the certainty and clarity of what she
offers.

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moment, He knows that there is nothing she will not permit Him. He
thinks of the words she has spoken, what she has offered Him in
response to His questions, and they excite Him with images-He can hear
her moan and gasp as the air is cut off from her lungs and her body
trembles, He knows the sight of her bound tight and helpless, the whip
falling in the lamplight as she cries out, the stillness of her body as
she kneels and waits for what will be her fate tonight, the soft clink
of chains against her limbs. He can see everything she has experienced,
and knows it in the ways He has experienced it as well-His own hand on
the whip, the clamps placed cruelly, the gag, the blood-thorn cast
aside as her body opens prone and abject? He knows her as He knows His
own past, as He has heard a girl crying out for touch, for some
gentleness within her surrender, as He has felt what is offered and
used it for his pleasure.

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black .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 0in 0in"> style="FONT-SIZE: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt">But in this
moment, looking down at her slender form, still and open, naked, a
slight and lovely poem inscribed in moonlight on a dusk-red carpet, He
knows that what He knows is not fulfilled yet, that the blue night that
enfolds Him and her like wings still has much to teach them both. The
gentleness and the strictness that arises in His soul is like a new
knowledge of reality, an Eastern sun shining soft against the hard
Western moon. He knows that in the quietness and gentleness of His
touch, in His calm regard for her being, that the gift she gives is far
more gathered for what is not spoken, for the acts that are not
performed, for the slow, sweet touch, the soul
soaring?

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leather whip on the floor beside her, coiled and hard, and binds her
hands with rope made of silk so fine it cannot be seen with the eye. He
touches her skin with fingers made of air, grazing her sweetness, her
open thighs, the back of her neck, the rounded curves of her buttocks,
the miracle of her knees, the sweetness of her arms, the hot wet heat
of her belly and loins, and in His touch all things gather, in the
words they speak, in the spaces their minds travel, the whip falling
and the tongue like fire, the hand at the throat and the lips touching
lightly, eyes shut in surrender and voice opened and howling, eyes open
and staring, wide open, as their souls entwine and burst open in
flower. All night as they make love, the whip lies beside them, and in
the morning he touches it to her mouth as they part. The moan she makes
stays in His heart like a mark, like something visible, something
anyone who speaks to Him will hear, the mark a rose makes brushed
softly on skin, the thorns and petal entwined like the first word
spoken?

Certificate 18

Love

First Night of the Poem of the Body

By jlacan

First Night of the Poem of the
Body

Type of tale

Genre