A GESTURE OF SURRENDER

Pale gossamer billows into the room from the French doors, beckoning to
the summer's night. The breeze threatens to extinguish the solitary
candle there, by her bedside, casting shadows that waver ghostlike on
the wall behind her. The wax from the taper drips a steady cadence,
adagio, onto Byron's most recent scandal, Don Juan. From the garden,
beyond the curtain's inadequate sanctuary, the pungent scent of
honeysuckle drifts into the room, imbuing it with heady perfume. The
mellow strains of her brother's cello rise up the staircase from the
elegant parlor, a faint, somber refrain. Somewhere, a dog howls in the
night, yet she is unaware, a hostage of sleep's unyielding embrace.

The breeze parts the curtains like a lily, revealing the silhouette of a
man whose darkness is augmented by the light of the moon. He stands
motionless for a moment, a measure. Then swift motion from the shadows,
as he enters her boudoir. He is tall, dark, enigmatic, beautiful,
asserting a quiet poise, yet somehow oppressive. Synonymous with the
candle's flicker, he is standing beside her bed. The light from the
taper, the moon; conspire to reveal her. Long ebony hair cascades over
the many pillows there, salient contrast to her perfect ivory skin, all
but luminescent in this moonlight. Her lips are gently parted, the
diminutive smile, a testament to some clandestine dream. Her breasts,
barely concealed by ivory lace, rise and fall to the peaceful rhythm of
her breathing. His passion is secreted by the fine sculptured features
of his handsome face. Dark eyes linger on the fragile beauty there. He
never takes his eyes from her, as he tosses his cloak over the chair near
the hearth, whose fire is no longer blazing intensely hot and furious,
having succumbed to it's own fury.

A pause. A moment, and he is over her kissing her tender mouth. She
stirs slightly in her sleep. He touches her silken hair, her face, the
curve of her throat, allowing his fingers a journey to the very arc of
her breasts as they rise and fall. The softness of her skin evokes
memories from another time, another pretty boudoir. With accustomed
tenderness, he peels the blankets to expose the prey. He honors the
visual feast. Delicate contours, scarcely veiled by sheer nightgown,
the rosy color of her nipples staining the pale fabric, the dark shadow,
further down, reveals a mound, arching itself to its inevitable fate. A
place where Venus could suffer envy.

Languidly, he lays himself upon her. Her thighs unfold to receive him;
an instinctive response. She is relinquished to some ethereal fantasy.
Her eyes remain closed. She raises her arms above her head,
hands folded tightly together. A gesture of surrender. His mouth moves
dreamily over her warm, yielding skin. Her body responds like a
feline, arching beneath him, yearning. Still, her arms remain over her
head, straining against their imaginary bonds. She sighs, a signal for
him, his moment has come. His hunger is nearly insatiable. His heart
races, a presentiment to desire. Gazing into her innocent face, he
brushes a loose strand of hair from her eyes, relieved they remain
closed in their reverie.

He positions her; his right of entry. With imposing command, he merges
his body into hers. He meets with some resistance but with sufficient
force, a familiar act, he feels himself sink into her. The heat always
surprises him. He lingers a moment, mesmerized by the warmth. Soon,
his steady rhythm is synchronized with every beat of her heart. Her
body moves beneath him. Her ecstasy builds like a tidal wave, hurling
her high into the air, above the clouds, very near the sun and stars, it
seems. The impression she is suspended in a blaze of golden light, held
aloft by her own desire, diminishes instantly, as she crashes to the
ground, to be consumed by the shadows. So, does his passion near
culmination. His rhythm nearing crescendo, with the cello far below.
His mind shatters into a thousand tiny fragments. He thinks of nothing,
feels everything, for this is when he is most vital; exclusively
sentient. His rapture is one of complete satisfaction. It defines his
existence.

Presently, he feels the replenishment of his soul, yet he remains there,
on her breast, his desire spent, his energy renewed. Her hands are
still clasped there, above her head. He weeps. His tears staining her
breasts, causing the fabric to cling to their delicate forms. Such
flawless beauty. Why is he ever captivated by the beautiful ones?
Always tender regret. At length, in the shadow of the pale moonlight, he
raises himself from her lifeless body and with her blood still dripping
from his teeth, he leaves by the same window from whence he came.

~The End~

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