| Erin by Indigo Marr
Erin. Sweet, dark, Irish lass.
For three years I have watched her. I've watched from my seat in the
wings as she played with sensuality and passion the works of Mozart,
Brahms, Debussy; with ferocity and joy the works of the Russian masters;
with brisk exhilaration the modern masterpieces of Copeland and his
For three years I have waited. Waited for her to come of age. Waited
for my courage to rise. Waited for the time. I have played my part well
these last years. Dark and quiet, in the shadows of the stage I have
watched her; let her see me watch her. With a subtle smile, I have
acknowledged her sight, and politely turned my gaze away. I have felt her
eyes on me, upon my mask of mystery. I enjoy the role.
I have taken my time with her, learning from her movements and her form
the things she likes, the things that fascinate her. I have become those
things. I am mysterious, masculine, subtle. I have the courage to face
her gaze, yet the poise to turn gently from it in deference to her. My
voice, well trained, it deep and rich, speaking quietly through microphones
to people she cannot see. Though I am speaking to the conductor, and
technicians of call times, house capacity, and details of work, she hears
only the tone and timbre of my voice. I have seen her watching me speak,
knowing that the words are too quiet to reach her as she stands across the
stage, waiting to take her place in the orchestra. I have seen her watch
the shape of the words; the shape of my mouth as they are formed. Another
detail of her I remember.
For three years I have played this game, never knowing if my efforts
progressed my desires. Never knowing the path of her moves, only their
position. What details have been to me? What thoughts hide behind
that face of beauty?
And now it has come to a point. This is to be her last performance.
Within the week she leaves for the coast. Graduation is several months
past, and now she leaves for another school, another stage of life. But
the game has been well played: she approached me tonight. She asked. Her
Coffee in a quiet café, the sound of her voice, the sight of the smile
in her eyes, and behind it the nervousness of uncertainty and the power of
An invitation: to see my artwork. I see her eyes brighten, her chest
raise, her mouth twitch deliciously. Desire and caution fight quietly
within her for a few brief seconds.
As we stand among the canvases, some finished, some progressing, others
virginal white, the sounds of Arvo Part again fill the room. She knows the
pretense is rapidly fading. I walk to stand behind her shoulder. She
turns to face me, her eyes tilted up to look into mine. With one gentle
finger I brush a lock of the soft from her face. She knows that
this is the time. Is it a quiet good night or a quiet kiss?
Slowly, I bow my head to hers, touching her soft lips gently with my
own, feeling her hesitation. A second time I kiss her. No harder this
time, but stronger. For a brief moment I feel her body tighten as if to
withdraw. Without breaking the gentle kiss, she relaxes into a deeper,
passionate kiss, wrapping her arms around my neck to bring me deeper into
her, into her kiss.
My own arms encompass her small form, feeling for the first time, the
lithe body I have watched for so long. The thin black silk of her
dress masks none of the power of her body. The touch of her, the feel of
her lips on mine, drives a heat through my body, yet I resist. This is
gentle, this must be passionate in its subtlety and control.
I pull slowly from her kiss, still holding her tightly against me and
look again into her eyes? A single question whispers from my lips. "yes?"
Two breaths pass, long and slow. Her eyes never stray from mine. I
feel the soft breath of her answer upon my face. "yes".
With one hand, I slowly draw the delicate zipper down the length of her
spine until the clasp rests at the very base. She steps back from my
embrace, and smoothly lets the thin silk slip to the floor, revealing the
smooth paleness of her lithe body. A cold flame flashes briefly across my
body as I look upon her. She is divinity. Her toned white skin is covered
now only by black lace. The whiteness of her showing through its fineness.
With a smile and a tilt of her head, she steps from the soft pile of
silk at her feet and walks to the large futon against the far wall. My
breath escapes me as I watch her. The smooth movement of her muscles, the
easy sway of her body, the gentle swish of her against her
shoulders and neck. With a easy grace, she sits on the thin mattress and
leans back against the wall. One knee draws up seductively, and her smile
I walk to her. I have no choice. I am, for the time, no longer in
control. Later, again I shall gain it, but for now I am captive to her
beauty, her power. As I reach the foot of the bed, she raises a hand to
stop me. The simple gesture has the power of a command to me. One finger
points out to me, lazily tracing up and down my form, then demurely slips
to her mouth where white teeth chew nervously on the unlaquered nail.
My own smile now matches hers. With an ease, I draw my black t-shirt
over my head and cast it to the floor. The black denim of my jeans soon
follows, and the last piece of white cotton follows. Naked before her, I
let her look. For several seconds, I simply stand, letting her eyes wander
over my form, seeing what she can in the lightly tanned skin and dark lines
Fluidly, she slides down across the pillows, stretching along the length
of the thin mattress and its soft quilts. Her arms above her
head , causing her back to arch, rolling slightly from one side to the
other, as if to give me a greater view of her body. Almost demurely, her
right leg bends, attempting to cover the delicate treasure and
hinted at behind the thin black lace.
I step forward, placing one foot then the other between her muscular
legs, spreading them gently as I do. I stand over her for a second,
looking again at her body. Then lower myself slowly to my knees,
then down to lay across her inviting body. The roughness of the lace she
still wears rubs against my chest and thighs, biting like small teeth
against my sensitive flesh, causing it to grow and press even harder
against the thin fabric.
Her arms slowly, languorously, around me. I bring my lips close
to hers, touching--barely--the delicate flesh. Her dry lips cling
tentatively to mine, as if hesitant to let the embrace end. Her warm
breath caresses my face, as mine does hers. Again, I let our lips touch,
gently. As our mouths hover a breath apart from each other, my tongue
gently snakes out, tracing the line of her lips, wetting them, tasting
I feel her body arch slightly against me; hear her breath stop as her
chest seeks to pull it in. Her hands grip against my back, her fingers
seeking to find purchase in the hard muscles and rough skin. Flexing
fingers push rounded nails into the surface, leaving scarlet crescents in
their wake. I can feel the strength of her fingers, the precision, the
power. My spine becomes her instrument, my breath and movement the music
she plays: Passion, subtlety, sensuality.
I taste deeply of her mouth, letting my tongue trace the contours of
her; feeling the textures of her mouth-- the smooth white of her teeth, the
lush strength of her tongue, the slick warmth of her cheeks. I taste her,
her breath, her flesh; seasoned by the rich, bitter remnant of coffee, dark
After long minutes of tasting her, kissing her, I move slowly down. I
caress her neck, her shoulders, with my mouth. Lips press against soft
pale skin, beginning to flush with her desire, her soft passion. Moving
ever farther down, my lips touch the black lace which still embraces her
small like a rival lover. Slowly, I trace along the edge of the
delicate material. Its fine beauty contrasts with its rough texture. It
is an obstruction to my goal, yet it is a tool of my seduction. It becomes
a path, a guide. Keeping me from the softness of her breast, the thin
barrier heightens her anticipation. Slowly teasing, my mouth continues to
circle around the swell of her chest, the soft delicious flesh of her
breast. I let the tip of my tongue slide beneath the edge of the lace. I
am closer. I am slowly gaining ground.
Farther down, pressed against my stomach, I feel the other lace lover,
holding her within its firm, loving embrace. I feel the heat beneath it,
the dampness behind it. The slow rolling motions at it rubs roughly
against me, stroking like a small kitten, seeking the master's hand against
its soft fur. That kitten, that lover, must wait though. There is time
enough for them later.
At last, I bring my hands up to her chest, running them along the firm
sides, feeling the strength of trained muscles, running them along the
lines of lace as it curls around her to slip between the curve of her back
and the soft pressure of the quilt beneath. Her chest rises with an deep
breath, while her back arches to allow the roughness of my hands to slide
beneath her to the clasp which holds her prisoner. Keeping her back
arched, I play with the small piece of fabric, tracing it, pulling it,
until at last I release it. My hands retreat from beneath her, bringing
with them the ends of the lace lover which has stood between us. With a
slow ease, it slips from her arms to be cast aside, left to lie where ever
it may fall.
Open to the air, her small flush, the delicate points clenching
and rising to me, asking for my touch, reaching for my kiss. Giving into
the silent pleas, I lower my mouth to one, it into the warm wetness
of it. Leathered fingers gently tease the other, brushing against the
hardened nipple in rhythm to the smooth strokes of my tongue. Complex
syncopations, harmonies and counter-melodies play against the small flowers. Breath, finger and kiss. These are the instruments.
Her strong, delicate hands reach to my head, thin fingers entwining
themselves in the lush length of my hair. They pull me to her. They tell
of her desire, her pleasure. Her need. I feel her thighs part, lifting
her legs to wrap around me, embracing me tightly, passionately--pressing
the roughness of the lace against my skin, against her. Her hips move, the
rhythm growing stronger, a slow crescendo of motion, a depth of action.
Rolling forward and back, her hips brush the black fabric against her
sensitive skin. I feel the dampness of the fabric grow; the embrace of her
legs tighten. The motion of her hips increases, becoming not faster, but
slower and harder--more intense, more deliberate. Roll, tense, release.
She is lost in the motion, the sensation of the rough lace against her
smooth, sensitive flesh.
Feeding off her motions, her sensations, I press my self harder against
her. My arms reach around her to the flatness of her back, the powerful
curve of her shoulder, pulling her to me as she pulls me to her. I draw
the whole of her into the warm embrace of my mouth, letting it slide
slowly out until only the sensitive tip rests within my lips. I draw it
into me drinking of it as I drink of her passion. Suckling from its
virginal swell. Tasting of it as any infant starved of food and love ever
could. All I know is this breast, this body, this woman before me, beneath
me, against me.
With a sharpness, I feel her arch against me. The length of her body
tenses, contracts in one violent gasp, holding it tight inside of her like
a drowning breath, holding it for a brief eternity, until the strain, the
sensation, is too much. In a long shuddering release, she comes down from
the height, relaxing against me in pleasant exhaustion, twitching randomly
in echoed sensitivity.
I lay my head against the moistness of her chest, the thin layer of
sweat cooling in the shallow valley between her breasts. I taste the
saltiness of it in my breath.
With an idle hand, I gently touch the nipple before me. There is no
passion in the motion, only familiarity and gentleness. A soft laugh
reverberates against my cheek as a tickle registers on the delicate breast.
Her fine, soft hand strokes my hair, brushing stray stands from my face,
placing it gently back into line. Though I cannot see it, I feel the smile
on her face. My own face pulls into a smile. She smiles from the pleasure
of what has happened. I smile for the knowledge of the pleasure that has
yet to come.