and the cool humidity that enveloped her, forgot his purpose with the wine and glass, the mystery for her to unravel—Victor filled the flute with champagne, set the bottle on the table.
Whispered into Zora’s ear: “Open your eyes.”
She did, and he spoke: “The inscription is the first clue.”
He said nothing of the history of the glass, of Voltaire and his lost love, simply lifted the glass full to the brim above her face to show her the letters carved into elephant tusk. His hand, normally as steady as something mechanical, had lost some of its poise, its smooth fluidity, and he spilled some of the champagne, not much, a trickle more than a stream, onto her right cheek.
In one fluid motion, the torsion of her neck more confident than the line of his hand, she turned her head to the left, so that the champagne flowed into her mouth. She curled her tongue against the meeting place of her lips, and further out, against the faintest, softest hairs of her cheek, to harvest the remaining drops. He was right, the taste transported her to the flora of Brazil, to some place hot and moist, rife with vegetation and pollination, and the carbonation of the wine sizzled in her mouth and down her throat.
“Your body is the second clue. A map. Close your eyes again.”
Darkness prevailed again in her mind, she had only the vision of emotion and perception, the light and shadow of the sensual. He cupped his left hand around the base of her right breast, and with his right hand holding the flute of chilled champagne, poured a stream of liquid down her shoulder, over and around her breast, the florid liquid beginning to pool in his hand.
The warmth of his hand overwhelmed her, and when the wine hit her humid skin, its chill sending a shiver reverberating through every limb, she could not stop herself from crying out. He murmured from deep in his diaphragm as she did so, a murmur of gratification at her show of rapture.
He began to drink the wine, her breast the vessel of his libation. Like a beast he lapped the wine from his cupped hand, like a connoisseur of pleasure he licked the trails of wine from the contours of her chest. The ballet of his tongue added a dimension of Eros never before known in the sacrament of wine.
It need not be said that her nipples gained a life of their own, moved of their own will with the play of his tongue. She squirmed uncontrollably in the chair as some of the wine, slipping through his fingers, splashing away from his mouth, cascaded all the way down her stomach and pooled between her legs.
A new kind of ambrosia was born, a mixture and a mingling of the juices of her body’s inner sanctum and the essence of the distilled grapes. After a few minutes he moved his hand, sticky with champagne and his own saliva, over to her left breast. The alchemy of liquid, the chemistry of tongue and chest, began anew.
When he was done with her breasts he kissed his way, slowly, back up to her mouth. There was still wine in the glass, he had intentionally reserved some for this, and as they kissed he poured the rest of the wine between their faces, creating a cataract of champagne around their noses, down into their interlocking mouths. They drank of each other and of the grapes, and their saliva as it flowed between them, from mouth to mouth, seemed to bubble even more than the wine itself.
Finally he rose again. Her eyes opened without needing his words. Victor Judge was gone. In his place was the Judge, the man with all the lofty titles, the beacon of legal scholarship. A man whose life was the story of Law, of cold dominion over others and over himself. Author not of the Becky Love Mysteries, but of books that could murder the senses, butcher the mind, dismember the imagination. The best known of his masterpieces, his magnum opus, a frightening thing to contemplate, much less confront:
Applying Principles of Economic Efficiency to Justice .
“I need you to get dressed. It’s time for you to track
Whispered into Zora’s ear: “Open your eyes.”
She did, and he spoke: “The inscription is the first clue.”
He said nothing of the history of the glass, of Voltaire and his lost love, simply lifted the glass full to the brim above her face to show her the letters carved into elephant tusk. His hand, normally as steady as something mechanical, had lost some of its poise, its smooth fluidity, and he spilled some of the champagne, not much, a trickle more than a stream, onto her right cheek.
In one fluid motion, the torsion of her neck more confident than the line of his hand, she turned her head to the left, so that the champagne flowed into her mouth. She curled her tongue against the meeting place of her lips, and further out, against the faintest, softest hairs of her cheek, to harvest the remaining drops. He was right, the taste transported her to the flora of Brazil, to some place hot and moist, rife with vegetation and pollination, and the carbonation of the wine sizzled in her mouth and down her throat.
“Your body is the second clue. A map. Close your eyes again.”
Darkness prevailed again in her mind, she had only the vision of emotion and perception, the light and shadow of the sensual. He cupped his left hand around the base of her right breast, and with his right hand holding the flute of chilled champagne, poured a stream of liquid down her shoulder, over and around her breast, the florid liquid beginning to pool in his hand.
The warmth of his hand overwhelmed her, and when the wine hit her humid skin, its chill sending a shiver reverberating through every limb, she could not stop herself from crying out. He murmured from deep in his diaphragm as she did so, a murmur of gratification at her show of rapture.
He began to drink the wine, her breast the vessel of his libation. Like a beast he lapped the wine from his cupped hand, like a connoisseur of pleasure he licked the trails of wine from the contours of her chest. The ballet of his tongue added a dimension of Eros never before known in the sacrament of wine.
It need not be said that her nipples gained a life of their own, moved of their own will with the play of his tongue. She squirmed uncontrollably in the chair as some of the wine, slipping through his fingers, splashing away from his mouth, cascaded all the way down her stomach and pooled between her legs.
A new kind of ambrosia was born, a mixture and a mingling of the juices of her body’s inner sanctum and the essence of the distilled grapes. After a few minutes he moved his hand, sticky with champagne and his own saliva, over to her left breast. The alchemy of liquid, the chemistry of tongue and chest, began anew.
When he was done with her breasts he kissed his way, slowly, back up to her mouth. There was still wine in the glass, he had intentionally reserved some for this, and as they kissed he poured the rest of the wine between their faces, creating a cataract of champagne around their noses, down into their interlocking mouths. They drank of each other and of the grapes, and their saliva as it flowed between them, from mouth to mouth, seemed to bubble even more than the wine itself.
Finally he rose again. Her eyes opened without needing his words. Victor Judge was gone. In his place was the Judge, the man with all the lofty titles, the beacon of legal scholarship. A man whose life was the story of Law, of cold dominion over others and over himself. Author not of the Becky Love Mysteries, but of books that could murder the senses, butcher the mind, dismember the imagination. The best known of his masterpieces, his magnum opus, a frightening thing to contemplate, much less confront:
Applying Principles of Economic Efficiency to Justice .
“I need you to get dressed. It’s time for you to track
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