NOTE: This
short story deals with an adult subject. If you are under 18,
have a chat with your parents.
 Merry Christmas
Short story
By Sophie
June 15, 2004
iranian.com
He was eager, as always. Nothing had
changed. Fingers fumbling and curious about this present he had
opened many times before, but now for the first time, again, after
well over a decade. Like an impatient child on Christmas morning,
he wanted to rush and break open the boxes to find whether Santa
had delivered all that was on his wish list - for indeed,
he had been a good boy. The glint in his eye, the heat in his touch;
how could she remain unmoved. While he talked, she thought, her
mind racing back and forth, madly leafing through the chapters
and then pages and then paragraphs of her life, which had so unfolded
to bring her right here into this hotel room, in this bed, in
between these sheets, once crisp, now crumpled underneath them,
while his hands explored the inches - Seattle.
How long had it been,
the touch of a man, not any man, but this man, and could she possibly
say she was a virgin again? At 42,
hardly, yet she once had been, with this very same man - some
long time ago in a spot not so far away from where they now lie,
in another room, in another bed, between another set of once crisp,
then crumpled sheets with her writhing, blushing clumsy body
- 1980.
She
can hear him now. In and out of the past she drifts, until his
touch cajoles her into the present they occupy. He wants her -
that's obvious and she him, by now. She lets go of her cool
exterior, disrobing mind, body and soul, succumbing to her desire
to touch
him. She guides his hand. He lets out an unnerving cry, as memories
rush back into his mind too, the young woman he once knew with
the same body response; she is as wet as an 18-year-old kissed
for the very first time. And he - hard.
The rest is a big blur of
attacking the sheets and the flesh, each reaching into the other's
innards, yanking the want, greedily grabbing an old memory, holding
it for a few seconds and letting
it go only to reach for another morsel to marvel at. Gone
are her inhibitions and morbid thoughts, chased away is the frosty
cloak with which she had insulated her soul in recent
years. Delicious gluttony - drunken bodies, sober souls -
making history. Her mind is now racing a million miles a minute.
Can she even hear him above the beseeching of her body - as
it lands back on planet earth and dares to feel - once again
- a man, this man. She has been loved, many times, that's
for sure - yet this is different - it is like coming
home. Her heart in her throat, threatens to race her to the little
death - le petit mort. There is no turning back.
He
insists that she take the lead, but how can she? She is now mere
putty, barely able to move. He is lying beside her, staring
at her, talking rapidly in English - of all things. And
she has a mental chuckle, that of all the lovers she has had, he
is the one privileged to share the Persian version of her libido
and yet he takes solace in an acquired tongue - oh, the irony.
As he rattles on, she, ferociously, translates in her head as her
arousal mutiplies. He won't stop talking, repeating
over and over again what he is going to do to her and yet, cruel
as he has decided to become at this very point in time, he won't
do it. He is holding back and she hates and loves him that very
moment for making her want him so. The boundaries blur as her mind
turns into mush, flushing itself of any thought other than this
moment, now, this body, this feeling.
She pulls him over herself
and they are still, for just a brief moment, to acknowledge what
is about to take place. He rubs against
her and it feels to her like standing atop a giant waterfall over
which she is about to slide. Cruel, callous and calculated - the
price of love, he wants her to beg for it. Voraciouly
she tears his soul apart, eyes wide open, staring, no shame
in this now. He enters her, first gently, and then hopelessly fiercely.
So, the two become one, if only for a brief moment,
stealing their destiny from the world outside and willing it to
be right here,
right now, another unspoken pledge made between the two of them.
This is theirs to keep. The gods are jealous.
 The waves come, first a gentle whisper
in her ear, she can feel the heat start building up around her
neck, spread down her torso while
her limbs shudder aflame. She moans. He holds her right there,
as if from instinct or experience or both, he knows where
to keep her teetering on the razor's edge before the inevitable
plunge. The humming in her ear, the convulsions that are building
up inside and his voice together form a mass chorus cheering her
on to dive. She is a goner. As every cell in her body implodes
and screams, she reaches out for him lest she be lost in the
abyss. Her mind plays the final stanza to nirvana as
the waves crescendo all over her flesh, finally coming to a joyous
rendezvous in between her legs. She soars.
.................... Say
goodbye to spam!
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Merry Christmas
