For such a rebel and heathen, perhaps it's ironic that she doesn't believe in choice. No, in her mind, our life paths were determined well before we were born. Now, she did believe that it was us that did the writing. In our fullness, our most integrated before becoming confined to these bodies, we knew us better than most of us are inclined to know ourselves now.
This story isn't an animist, spiritualist, anything-ist manifesto. It's a retelling of the truth, one woman's truth. Her life had two ruling forces- compulsion and restraint. Freedom and stagnation. Truth and lies. Her years seemed to be comprised of thrusting and hurtling herself into the ever-transforming arenas of truth, at every opportunity. Into the arms of every lover with whom she could scream her name into the night. On top of every callous man who'd fuck her name into the void, keening with reckless abandon. Underneath anyone penetrating enough to force her to call out her name into the ocean of herself. What does all that pretty poetry mean? It means red. Swollen. Heat. Movement. It means coming over and over and over but never hard enough. The Big One, that didn't come from just cock alone. The Big One that came with more. Because it wasn't really just One Big Orgasm. It was a state of continuous orgasmic energy. It would come with a fullness coded in a language that no callous, cold, psychotic, wild man she found was able to speak, or had even heard of.
Well, let's not get carried away. One had heard of it. Another had heard enough to feign fluency. Whispered threats and raw thrusts into her bleeding hole, baptizing his cock with her gushing blood and unending, unquenchable cum. Poetry of receiving absolution from heretical priests. Priests of that Otherworld she'd been born in and emerged from—that Otherworld where you emerge either mad, or a poet. An artist.
The physical language of backhands and hatred, of delivering her fist to the abs of a grown man, of being slammed like she was less than human and more than goddess-- was enough small talk in her native tongue to make the core of her being spring to attention. But inevitably, she realized that the only priest she had ever met from that world, her world, hadn't emerged an artist or a poet. Just mad. Just a mortal man, crushed by the weight, shattered by what is demanded of such complete truth. And so restraint walked in and made itself at home, intermittent roommates of the infrequent calls of instinct back into the forest where she belonged.
Lost, alone, armed with too much to ever be treated as a being instead of an idea. Tossing and turning, gods laughing, she felt like an expatriate of that invisible cave. Come with me, I'll take you to yourself, we'll be free, she said— and that thumping, racing heart ripped apart over and over.
But frenzy is not so easily silenced. Not when one day, you wake up and know with complete confidence that another energy like yours is on the horizon. Not a priest or constricted psychopomp. Something different. And when you meet that energy, you pursue it fast. Hard. With the training she'd been built with, built for, spent her life perfecting— he did not demand her attention, but enticed her curiosity. He, in fact, denied any and all knowledge of this language she casually slipped into their conversation—but with the kind of nod and wink that begged to be laid bare, and the gleaming eyes of reverence that she couldn't mistake for anything else.
And that's how she came to this moment. This day. This smell of—actually, she couldn't place it. Burlap? She thought to comment on it, and realized her question came out only as a muffled mess of sounds.
"Good morning," came his familiar voice. "Nice to see you've joined us." The same voice she'd heard speak to her, lovingly, for weeks and months on end. It was still loving, in fact. Casual. Normal.
More senses kicked into gear. Her mouth, stuffed, her body—laid across a floor. Of something moving... A car? Fuck. That odd smell right in front of her nose—her eyes wrenched open, to see... nothing. Something was covering her eyes. No, something was covering her entire head. She strained her vision, trying to get an idea of where she was and what was happening. He was speaking so evenly.
"I mean, it is still technically morning. Not that you can tell the difference. It could be 2 p.m. for all you know. You really enjoyed that "one" cocktail, didn't you? Or was it... two. No, wait, it was three. That's right." Muffled noises of confusion and, now, protest sounded from the floor of his speeding car. There was a smile on his face, invisible to his lover.
"Funny enough, I don't actually require commentary from you. You might have noticed that, but compliance isn't your strong suit. That's one of the many things I love about you." Despite this weird misadventurous wake-up call, she smiled. "But for now, baby, just shut the fuck up. I don't need you wasting your energy like that. "
Wasting energy... last night—or yesterday? She didn't remember—came flooding back to her as she wracked her brains for context, for an explanation. Her boyfriend wasn't crazy. In fact, he was as compassionate as he was intelligent, maybe even more so; something she'd never encountered before. She remembered him pouring out whiskey neat, no chaser, just how she liked it. She thought he had been pouring himself one too, but thinking about it a bit harder, she realized he hadn't. Before long, there wasn't just one, or two drinks in her—which meant he had been sober when she had crawled onto him, biting his neck, whispering ancient secrets, making confessions she'd never risk otherwise. He'd smiled. Kissed her, hard. Everything else was turning into a blur, and the present slammed itself back into focus.
He was smiling when she rolled straight into the back of his seat.
"You'll notice that I haven't tied you up if you try to pay a little more attention, babe." He was right. "I mean, I didn't need to. All the doors are locked, you're in the back and you can't see. And you wouldn't want to do anything stupid like fuck with me while I'm driving, that'd get us both into shit. But I know you won't, honey. So you can sit up, baby. I mean, if you can. I really wouldn't worry though; we're not far now. You slept through most of the ride. It was pretty cute, actually. Sorry, I know you hate that word."
Under the hood, an eyebrow raised in slight challenge. She pressed her palms to the floor and pushed herself up, feeling around and sensing where the seat was- finding it, and lowered herself uneasily. Success. But right as she'd sat herself down, the car made a turn, and slowed to a stop.
"You weren't really prepared for our little trip when you fell asleep, so I was nice enough to put your boots on for you. You're welcome, babe. I didn't really bother to pack much else, but I didn't think you'd really need it. Anyway, try not to freak out. We're here."
Where the fuck is here, she thought. Freak out? As if. This was another adventure. Another game. They'd had many across their year together—hikes, metal working, driving hours and hours in pilgrimage together. This was another one. She just didn't remember planning it. Quickly, her hands raked over her body- a thin cover, like a robe, over nothing but a bra and panties. What the fuck? She couldn't cover herself much, had no idea where she was, and now—a cold burst of air hit her.
A door opened, and warm hands pulled her onto cold earth. Not even earth—maybe sand. It was dry, a little gravelly, and unpleasant to feel on your fucking knees. This wasn't really fun. Feeling that post-drunk craving hit her hard, she wanted water. And she wanted a jacket, or coat, or blanket. This wasn't a game.
Without seeing, she heard and sensed her boyfriend standing over her cold, crouching form.
"I know I told you not to freak out, but actually, you can freak out as much as you'd fucking like. There's nobody out here. For miles." He smirked. "Who am I kidding. You're not the freaking out type. Wishful thinking."
The cover over her eyes was ripped away suddenly, and her slightly weakened eyes were greeted by a deep blue and a million stars. Way too many stars for the city. Way too many stars for anyone to hear her scream. But right now, she didn't want to. She was seriously—
"I know you're thirsty. You never seem to get headaches after drinking like that, but you just wake up and drink all the cold water out of my fridge. Don't worry baby, I've got you covered. I know my fuckin' girl." His soft hand jerked her long hair back in one quick movement, and without removing the cloth that muffled her speech, he poured cold water all over her gaping mouth. She had still been calm before, curious even—but now she was starting to fucking panic, if only because she needed to drink water. The damp, soaked cloth in her mouth not only wasn't enough, but it was making it hard to breathe and sending her into some condensed version of terror. It seemed so simple, water, drinking water, swallowing water, cool and pure and delicious and everything she needed right now.
"I'm sorry, baby. Was that not enough for you? You weren't opening wide enough. Let's try again." Hand still gripping her hair, it wrenched back again. "Just open wider. I know that isn't hard for you." There was a slight smugness to his tone, and she realized the cloth in her mouth wasn't the only thing that was damp. At all. The skimpy cloth between her thighs was mutinously, undeniably wet.
"Okay, I know you can't drink like that. Don't worry, baby, I'll take care of you. I'll take that out of your mouth if you lay back and let me." She looked up at him, trying to answer with her eyes, and he responded by placing his boot on her chest and shoving her hard onto the desert floor. He crouched over her now, staring fixedly into her eyes. Without delivering on his promise of more fucking water, he instead placed his knee between her legs and shoved them open. Touching that increasingly wet spot between her legs.
"Yeah, that's what I thought. Maybe you think I took you out here for some kind of romantic getaway, and that all this weird shit will be over soon and I'll fuck you under the stars like you've always wanted to." He took the knee away.
