The Summoning of the May Queen
Dedicated to M., for adequate inspiration.
Author's Foreword: This narrative contains clement use of power dynamics and titles (e.g. Daddy), impact play, and breathplay. All interaction within this fictional narrative is participated in by consenting parties over the age of 18.
"Lovers alone wear sunlight" - e.e. cummings
As I look around, the walls are accented with some hues of blue and red. The movements of my eyes slow, in surveyance of the various decorations surrounding me. I search for something to study, something to alleviate the thoughts darting around my mind. The occasional tingle under my arms is a brushstroke within the portrait of my verboten nervousness.
The room is somewhat brisk, but I almost feel some sort of shockwaves from the passing breeze on the outskirts of the window. In that moment, I am but a conduit of malaprops and inconsistent breaths. There's something inviting about the slackness of the linen. It's soft, and the gliding of my hand across it brings back memories of dimly-lit rooms on the precipice of twilight. I almost feel regretful at the thought of deflowering this ostentatious temple, to slide and shift it away from its serenity.
My hands are cold, but yet still, I reach into my pocket and grab the small container. Listerine breath strips. How fucking juvenile. The accomplice to many awkward moments shared on park benches and the stoops of obliterated fraternity houses.
Just for a moment, I think back to all the desires felt in those moments, seeking distraction from all the sighs and half-hearted hugs that often succeeded those desires. I guessed that it was better to lie awake with the forethought of grief than sleep in a den with butterflies of alimony.
I feel the strip dissolve onto my tongue. As my mouth is washed with some artificial pigmentation of wintergreen, I feel almost like a jester to my own court folly. They didn't see the hours before when I brushed my teeth, walked away, and still returned for some second serving of fluoride. All for some construct that may not even be acknowledged or studied in those few hours. Inevitably, that same sensodyne-laced saliva could blend in alchemy, giving way to a more carnal, exhibitionist medley of aftereffects. Some sort of token of mutual warfare and acceptance of one's thinly concealed urges.
I lightly tap my thighs, as if trying to keep time with my heartbeat. It's almost like I can feel a train passing through a tunnel, bearing a cargo that docks unaccepted. For all the colloquial knowledge of blood flow and oxygen, I still indulge each passing exhale. Desperately clinging for some sort of steady, yet elusive, regulation. I stand at the attention of each passing sound. Whether it's the soft lull of a speaker still able to bombard my senses, or the shuffle of footsteps I can't quite trace the pattern of.
Those steps are gentle, almost too gentle, as if they were hovering over the floor, only to supplement touch when its mistress feels so inclined to grace it with her physical presence. Time becomes but a dilapidated fantasy, of which to whom I'm bound and quartered. Any passing moment could yield the soft creak of the hinges, and the acquaintance of some daydream now evaporating into the mental fog around me, only to be reacknowledged when looking towards a guiding half-moon. I signed up for this.
As if I were crafting a manuscript, I recount all of the choices that brought me to that linen I now sit on. The words that stumbled out of my countenance. The touches I extended just a second more to feel the small of her back. Failure seems too imminent. I reach for the remote, even if it'll just be used to blankly stare at the television.
The sound of my rustling over to reach it almost feels criminal, as if I shouldn't even announce my presence audibly. Then again, I was guided here at the end of an outstretched hand. Told to be comfortable. Somehow that seemed like an oxymoron. Attempting to calculate your every move to present some air of boyish indifference only seems to lead to that same, familiar tension.
The door opens. Lost in my own thoughts, I sit unable to recognize that same creaking of hinges I had intensely imagined before. It's almost as if that slowly swinging door stands as an unnoticeable piece of foreground in the meadow of my mental obstination.
I'm still captive to the light that encircles me, the hammock in the corner of the room, and all the reflections of my eyes on each panel of the wall. To journey through some labyrinth of manifestation, whose walls are lined with novel excerpts and drunken boasts of swaggering prowess. In that moment, the world of my intellectual creation rests more firmly than the one I've legitimately found myself entangled upon.
"Hey..."
Her words almost taste like an ambrosia I've been unknowingly gifted. The drop in her tone seemingly reaches down towards the yearning I keep so well buried. It trails off, seemingly inviting some sort of witty, half-hearted response. Without thinking, I turn my head to glance at the bearer of my transfixing elixir. My eyes carefully begin to focus on what my body had so carelessly directed its attention towards. As if she had risen from the seafoam herself, a transcendent figure stood at the doorway.
Slowly, I compartmentalize the details standing before me. That same lace I had admired before, now adorned her tantalizing legs. It seemed to beg for the same caress I had previously given in the midst of my hypnosis. It converged with a set of matching black panties, outfitted with thin veneers of roses and Victorian spirals. Like something that made more sense adorning a well walked-through parlor.
It resembled some sort of unlocked gate, aching to be carefully passed through, as to avoid some form of desecration. But at that moment, all I could think of was how those roses and spirals would look wrapped in my hands, amidst the onset of a feverish intensity.
As my eyes continued to rise, and I searched for some matching brassiere, there was none to be found. Her breasts, exposed, upright, are alluringly feminine. As if they belonged to a siren who was destined to maroon me in the ocean of her gaze. Fitting that she opened the door with a call. An invitation to some form of primal depravity. Her face, lined with the glitter tears I had pictured so many times, shaded in a spectrum of color, were but a trigger to offset the innocence her eyes presented. At that moment, she is both Virgin and Succubus. A May Queen whose curves breed corrupt fantasies. Fantasies I'd replayed far too many times.
"Well, you look nice."
Those words seemed to shamble out of me. It was the only thing I could create from the swells of my flustered speech. For all of the poetry I'd written, and the vast extent of my prior concealments, I found myself transformed into some creature of basic instinct. I'm sure the surprise I felt was besmirched all over my grin. The trenches of my wanting, made both body and seductor.
At that moment, a skirmish rages between my limbs. One side seeks to graciously extend my arm to the Vestal, as if seeking some courtship through fields of barley. The other wants to take and ravage her like some soldier returning to his mistress after a long-suffered war. For lack of tantric command, I resign myself to prolong an embarkation.
"Well, what do you think?"
The sound of her voice seems to regulate the cacophony I'd been plagued with.
"Can't say I haven't imagined this", I reply. That boyish, "fuck you" attitude still sheepishly covering in the place of "fuck me". There's no shame in embracing a mutual affectation towards mind games. Without silence and that hint of hesitation, there's no fulfillment in that eventual, infernal, release.
Once again, I hear those same floating footsteps, but this time I can see its conjurer. She walks as if she's led by some cosmic pull. As if she can't help but let her legs slightly cross in front of her, teasing you as they get closer, while simultaneously maintaining distance. Like she has no awareness of how her body sways in some rhythmic, charming way.
As if bewitched, I slowly begin to sit back, letting my arms melt into the bedsheets, maintaining my admiration of the portrait that slowly moves towards me. As she stands right in front of me, I bear witness, in some euphoric horror, to those same roses beginning to straddle my waist. As her arms begin to wrap around my back, I take in the toxin of her perfume. With a simple, elongated breath, I descend into a trance. One in which my lips uncontrollably chart the smoothness of her neck. Tenderly, with the stern mission of leaving no inch underappreciated. With each rocking of her neck, I find myself eternally unsatiated.
"You just don't understand how bad I want you". A rare bit of honesty from me, a phrase I simultaneously regret and feel intoxicated by.
"Is that so?", she replies. The calling card of her wit. How she holds up a mirror to your own supposed cleverness. Always seemingly one step ahead. In most cases, I'd simply brush it off and ignore my inner instinct. Allow my better conscious to stand between two lines, holding back some urge to correct that wit. This was not one of those times.
Like some magma finally emerging from the bevy of smoke and fog, I finally uncover the sense of commandment. As if instantaneously switching aspects, I grasp her shoulder and gradually drop it down, to where she now lays flat across my lap. I can feel the warmth of her thighs across my knees, and I'm now looking down at an ass that looks far too unmarked. As if I were some mystic, my tone deepens. It loses that bounce I wear as a foolish masquerade of my indifference. It becomes short and forceful, forsaking that stutter I seemed to always fall towards.
