Sunday
I watch the mass of humanity swirl in their pointless gyrations. All but a very few are of interest to me. Most are vapid, dull, colorless souls. They chase comfort like any addict chases the next hit. They seek to make themselves numb, hiding in cocoons of games, of alcohol and stronger things, of shared fears or fantasies, of simple and desperate pursuit of the most banal physical experience, blocking out perceptions past the shell of the world around them, deaf and blind to anything more than what is perceived in the quickest glance. I hunger for the ones with deeper needs, with unsated longings, the ability and willingness to see substance beneath the thin layer the crowds refer to as "reality". Dreamers, psychics, a few artists, and many madmen are my sustenance.
She came into view. I could feel her needs, throbbing deep in her belly and aching in her heart, and yet her soul shined with a clear innocence, a perfect white candle flame in a dark and still room. Her mind was tangled, frayed in places, but intelligent, creative, and possessing more sight than the masses who walked through the world with their heads wrapped in wool. An artist, but also versed in sciences, and languages. A unique morsel that stoked my hungers. She was burning with passion, yet lonely, and she could perceive me past the constant babbling of the world around her. My passion resonated with hers. I could feel myself swelling and throbbing in time with her aching need to be filled, and I was drawn to her, with an equal desire to fill her.
Her art spoke of loneliness and desire. She was timid, though, afraid to let her creativity off the restraints she kept it in. She drew beautifully, and wrote lines that would make the soul tingle with the feelings of her characters, but there is always the note of hesitation. I wanted to caress her neck and back as she worked, lick the curve of her ear, taste her focus, and feel the intensity as she created. But while the sun was up, while the lights were on, while she gave her attention to the monitor or sketch pad was not my time.
After she turned off the lights in the evening, while she drifted between wakefulness and sleep I came to her.
She lies on her side with her arm under her head, and I spoon against her, my thighs a tingle against her bottom, my breath a thrill down her spine, my voice an echo in her head, half heard half dreamed telling her how beautiful she is, how inspiring she is. She stiffens, not from the physical sensations I tease her with, but at my words. She doesn't see herself that way, and thinks my words are her own thoughts, that she is just having a stray thought. I nuzzle into her hair, and continue my attentions to her lovely waist and hips, but remain silent. Slowly she relaxes again, taking pleasure in the sensations in her body while thinking of herself as naughty and dirty for the harmless pleasure she is starting to feel. Her thoughts are as clear as her voice to me, and as beautiful. I will take her, but not until she asks me to, and not tonight.
As I continue with my exploration of her lovely body, she puts a pillow between her thighs and rolls on top of it. Her mind is starting to float, letting go of all her reservations and worries, and getting into the moment of what she is doing. I lie on top of her riding her, grinding against her bottom as she grinds against her pillow. I can feel her movements pick up pace, and the thrills running from her mons outward through her body, and as her peak swells through her I groan from the pleasure I feel in her. Immediately, she stiffens, hearing me, and feeling my presence. I had underestimated how sensitive she is. In a moment, she has convinced herself it was a stray cat outside, or wind, and relaxes into the aftershocks of her climax. As she drifts off to sleep, I reflect on what just happened, and wait for her dreams.
"Sveta, I am here for you", I said as I stepped out of the mirror into her room.
She looked at me, clearly aware that this was in her dream, and yet confused, as if she knew at some level that this was not one of her usual dreams.
"Who, what are you? Why are you here?"
She saw a haze, a dark smear shaped like a man in front of the full length mirror on her closet door. Features would become clear for an instant before going misty again. I picked through her memories, imagination, and dreams and created an appearance that drew upon things she had never shared. The haze coalesced into a tall slim man, wearing a charcoal grey suit with a jacket and a red vest over a silver-grey shirt and a dark red tie with a fine paisley pattern. He was dark blond with a stubble beard and green eyes. His complexion was fair, a contrast to her tanner skin and black hair and eyes.
"I am Ster du Matin. I am here because of your desires and your gifts. You called, and I am here."
In the fluid truths of Sveta's dream, she was sitting on her bed wearing a loose silk shirt and shorts. Her hair was perfect; black with a very slight curl at the ends framing her face. She was trying to process his words as he stepped over and sat beside her. Ster placed his arm around her shoulders and could feel her struggling to wake, scared, but at the same time free of the inhibitions of waking hours, aroused by his presence. His arm on her shoulders made her body sparkle with pleasure. In her sleep, her nipples hardened again, and her core melted with renewed desire. Ster gently cupped her chin, tilted her face up to his, and kissed her. Sveta cast fears away and forced her tongue between his lips.
With that, Ster became a mist, and dissipated. Sveta woke with a start, in her bed, wearing her usual cotton tank top and panties, with her heart racing. She was alone in her room and there was only a faint light through the curtains, instead of the soft, sourceless light of her dream. She felt the wetness between her thighs and her nipples were tight, sensitive little knots under her top. It was definitely the most vivid dream she could remember, but she told herself it was only a dream. To help herself get back to sleep, she slipped her hand into her panties and stroked her pearl, as she imagined Ster's lips on hers, and his hands exploring her body. She pinched her nipples in turn and massaged her sweet spot furiously until she saw stars and panted for breath. As she drifted back to sleep, she felt watched, but in a tender, protected way.
-----
Monday
She is excellent. She wants what I bring her, even if she can't say the words out loud.
The sun shines through the curtains, and Sveta stirs. When she had slept, she had slept well, but the dream that had woken her up is still vivid in her memory. She uses the water closet, then starts a small pot of coffee between the stove and the sink. Her apartment fills with the warm smell of coffee brewing as she pulls on sweatpants. When the coffee is ready, she takes it out on the fire escape that she laughingly referred to as her balcony. She lit a cigarette, and took a drag, then sipped her coffee, and as her caffeine and nicotine cravings subside, she thinks. Looking out from the third floor, into the trees between the apartments on her block is her place for reflection, but today is still echoing from the strange dream. Ster's voice is echoing in her head. Desires, gifts, calling. Sveta plays with these words. How did I call, she asks herself. What gifts did he mean? What desires- Sveta blushes deeply thinking of how her body had responded to him. Ster. The... what? Man? Figure? Spirit? In her dream. Reaching through the window, she picks up her notebook and starts writing down what she remembers of the dream. Normally she can only remember a paragraph or two of her dreams, but today she fills three pages. She turns the page again and sketches what she remembers of him. Her first sketch satisfies her, a tall slim man in an immaculately tailored suit. She reaches through the window again, and grabs a couple of colored pencils, and starts adding the red to his vest and tie, and green for his eyes. Turning the page again, she starts over, recreating the smudges that spoke to her before resolving into the man she drew first.
Sveta turns back to the first drawing, and something tugs at her memory, the flees, like a dust devil on a windy day. Dust devil, she thinks, Mr. DeBiase who runs the Italian delicatessen on the next block would tip his hat to the little swirls of dust, leaves, and papers when he sees one outside his store. He said they were how folletti, the fae folk, the little people traveled, and you always have to be respectful of them. Looking at the face she had drawn, she caresses the line of his jaw in her mind, then his cheek bones, running her finger along the page.
I shiver at her touch.
Sveta pulls her hand back. Something made her fingers tingle. Picking up her pencil again, she starts on a fresh page, this time drawing a three quarter view head and shoulder portrait.
Blind and weak in the sunlight, I dimly make out the subject of her sketch. I smile as I recognize the lines of the face I had presented her.
Sveta goes back into the apartment, sets her notebook, pencils, and coffee on the tiny table she uses for her dining table, throws the cigarette butt in the trash, draws the curtains behind her, and peels off her sweat pants. After she rolls out a mat on the wood floor, she begins a series of sun salutations. After half a dozen sun salutations, she is glistening with perspiration. She rolls up the mat and works through Wing Chun forms for twenty minutes. Her friends do Pilates and barre classes, aerobics, or run or swim, but living in the city she always felt safer practicing a martial art. So once a week, she went down to Chinatown, and practiced kung fu from China's southern cities. The class begins with qigong exercises to warm up, and finishes with meditation. Every morning she practices the forms, visualizing her opponents and feeling the weight of her imaginary adversary as she executes each technique. She's shy about it in front of her friends, even though they complimented her on her physique.
