calm, swallows utter their strange mechanical chirps as they boomerang overhead catching breakfast.
I think I can remember reclining here years before, alone but comfortable with that fact at first, picking out fiery dragons and vengeful Gods amongst the capricious folds of the silent freight-rushing clouds overhead. Later I would stare at the distant movement of self-absorbed people walking the nearest streets by daylight, and further away cars lurching a slow conga through the congested chaos of the suburban town center.
I occasionally wondered what it would be like to have omnipotent powers, to be able, should I choose, to crush the scenes of everyday inconsequence without a second thought. Closer to my vantage point are scattered groups of trees, oases in farm constructed deserts, the wise old giants separated from their kin by ruthless and indiscriminate human need.
I'm drifting now, fighting the urge to fall back into the void and losing the battle...
* * *
She shudders when I produce the sterile surgical knife, but with anticipation not fear. We both believe that she has nothing to fear from me. I try hard to steady the slight tremors of my hand, not wanting to reveal how nervous I am, even though we both know that this is our first time – that she is to be my first 'donor'.
Her name is Meg, never the formal Meghan, and she is effortlessly beautiful. Even her small imperfections, a small bump at the bridge of her nose and a thin white scar in her hairline, are perfect to me.
I study her and she in turn studies me in the half-light cast by black candles, her left eyebrow raised and bee-sting lips pursed in her standard unconsciously suggestive manner. She is the image of paradox, even to my naive scrutiny. Her facial expressions and maturing figure a caricature of that dangerous blossoming adolescent sexuality, the body language incongruous, all rounded shoulders and awkward toe-scuffing shuffle.
She lines her jade green eyes with kohl black, pointed and elongated in the corners, with deep purple eye shadow finishing off the bruised feline look. The same shade of purple coats her lips and nails, and she has a small silver stud in her nose. She has no need for hair dye or pale foundation, having been blessed with near translucent white skin and naturally raven colored hair; hair that she hides half of her face behind for much of the time, either chewing at a loose strand or twirling it with her finger.
Most of the time Meg conceals herself with grungy Goth clothing, a riot of wrinkled black velvet with purple silk linings, accompanied with leaden black boots with metal studs and foot high soles. Now she is naked though, her skin smooth and pale, with fine downy blonde hairs at the base of her spine and a silver ring piercing her navel. She is breath-taking. Her eyes catch the flicker of flames, appearing for an instant to be ablaze like pools of burning chartreuse.
“ Don't be afraid, I want this. I was born wanting this.” Her voice is soft and urgent, our eyes meeting and locking for that instant – an eternity.
I place a hand on her cooling shoulder, feel her trembling, and score a shallow gash, pausing for long moments to watch the dark blood beginning to run down her back. As my lips touch the bloodied flesh and my tongue starts to lap tenderly at the wound, she moans softly and turns around to bring her mouth to mine.
Our eyes lock with an intensity that excludes everything else; the surroundings already fading from view. There is only this moment now; the movement of her soft lips over my own, mouths opening to share the delicate perfumed taste of her blood. Her hands move languidly over my torso and downwards, her legs encircle my waist, I lay her back on the soft velvet fabric and produce the blade for a second time.
Our kiss deepens, my tongue sliding over and then entwining with hers. I thrill at the fleeting tension that enters and leaves her as the knife whispers delicately
I think I can remember reclining here years before, alone but comfortable with that fact at first, picking out fiery dragons and vengeful Gods amongst the capricious folds of the silent freight-rushing clouds overhead. Later I would stare at the distant movement of self-absorbed people walking the nearest streets by daylight, and further away cars lurching a slow conga through the congested chaos of the suburban town center.
I occasionally wondered what it would be like to have omnipotent powers, to be able, should I choose, to crush the scenes of everyday inconsequence without a second thought. Closer to my vantage point are scattered groups of trees, oases in farm constructed deserts, the wise old giants separated from their kin by ruthless and indiscriminate human need.
I'm drifting now, fighting the urge to fall back into the void and losing the battle...
* * *
She shudders when I produce the sterile surgical knife, but with anticipation not fear. We both believe that she has nothing to fear from me. I try hard to steady the slight tremors of my hand, not wanting to reveal how nervous I am, even though we both know that this is our first time – that she is to be my first 'donor'.
Her name is Meg, never the formal Meghan, and she is effortlessly beautiful. Even her small imperfections, a small bump at the bridge of her nose and a thin white scar in her hairline, are perfect to me.
I study her and she in turn studies me in the half-light cast by black candles, her left eyebrow raised and bee-sting lips pursed in her standard unconsciously suggestive manner. She is the image of paradox, even to my naive scrutiny. Her facial expressions and maturing figure a caricature of that dangerous blossoming adolescent sexuality, the body language incongruous, all rounded shoulders and awkward toe-scuffing shuffle.
She lines her jade green eyes with kohl black, pointed and elongated in the corners, with deep purple eye shadow finishing off the bruised feline look. The same shade of purple coats her lips and nails, and she has a small silver stud in her nose. She has no need for hair dye or pale foundation, having been blessed with near translucent white skin and naturally raven colored hair; hair that she hides half of her face behind for much of the time, either chewing at a loose strand or twirling it with her finger.
Most of the time Meg conceals herself with grungy Goth clothing, a riot of wrinkled black velvet with purple silk linings, accompanied with leaden black boots with metal studs and foot high soles. Now she is naked though, her skin smooth and pale, with fine downy blonde hairs at the base of her spine and a silver ring piercing her navel. She is breath-taking. Her eyes catch the flicker of flames, appearing for an instant to be ablaze like pools of burning chartreuse.
“ Don't be afraid, I want this. I was born wanting this.” Her voice is soft and urgent, our eyes meeting and locking for that instant – an eternity.
I place a hand on her cooling shoulder, feel her trembling, and score a shallow gash, pausing for long moments to watch the dark blood beginning to run down her back. As my lips touch the bloodied flesh and my tongue starts to lap tenderly at the wound, she moans softly and turns around to bring her mouth to mine.
Our eyes lock with an intensity that excludes everything else; the surroundings already fading from view. There is only this moment now; the movement of her soft lips over my own, mouths opening to share the delicate perfumed taste of her blood. Her hands move languidly over my torso and downwards, her legs encircle my waist, I lay her back on the soft velvet fabric and produce the blade for a second time.
Our kiss deepens, my tongue sliding over and then entwining with hers. I thrill at the fleeting tension that enters and leaves her as the knife whispers delicately
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