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Date Posted: 16:08:11 11/03/10 Wed
Author: celtgirl ()
Subject: Inside for Jamie>>>
In reply to: celtgirl 's message, "Being that it was National Author's Day on Monday, and both Elaine and Peggy were kind enough to shout out to me on FB on that score, I figured it might be time to post something new. Also I'm celebrating the fact that EU has enough five star rankings on the Chapters website that it's been named a Member's Favourite! A small thing, but I'll take what I can get. :)" on 15:39:14 11/03/10 Wed

copyright 2010 Cindy Brandner

Chapter (?) ‘…For Blood and Wine Are Red’

Jamie entered the hut on a swirl of frosted snow, the heat of the room hitting him in the face as though he had stepped too close to a fire. He breathed it in, allowing his lungs to take the sweet shocking pain of it. The small kitchen and dining area was empty, but clean. She was here though, he could sense her as one senses a spider ensconced in her web, where no thread moved or breathed without her knowledge. He could smell too the oil she liked to drop in her bath that was scented with black gardenias.

On the cracked countertop there was a bottle of wine- red and breathing out in dark, fragrant notes- pomegranates and deepest crimson grapes, the ones whose juice poured forth like fresh spilled blood. She had already poured a glass for him and left it waiting. He drank as he was meant to, for it was part of the game. It was delicious, tasting of Georgian earth and Saperavi grapes and the deep undernotes of the vessels it was aged in, the ancient clay of the kvevri- it was as heady as liquid roses on his tongue. He wondered where she had sourced it, what deeds had been committed to bring it here to this godforsaken hole. He drank it like a Georgian, swiftly to the dregs and then poured himself another glass, taking a slow contemplative swallow, before walking through to the bedroom.

On the bedside table was a bowl of white peaches, a sharp silver knife beside them, waiting to quarter and bleed them. Their delicate flesh veined coral and garnet, their perfume heady as opium. He knew well enough their purpose, nestled there in the lacquered bowl, for he had taught her this particular pleasure. An open jar of honey glinted crimson-gold in the firelight. Oh yes, he had schooled her well. Too well, perhaps. He still had a bruise on his face from their last encounter.

She was already on the bed, naked. The sheets were clean, candles blazing in profusion, lighting the entire area with a rubescent glow. She herself was a study in red, red lips, parted in carnal expectation, lower lips suffused within the claret hair. Breasts tipped vermilion with a generous brush, full and aroused in the cherry coal light which spilled from the stove, and lent its carnelian flush to her skin. Her hair was loose, fanned across the clean pillows like flames burning the cheap cotton. She was desirable, and his body, despite his mind’s aversion, took this in and did with it what it would. He had become a whore, knowing that whether the ends justified the means or not, he was still whoring his body to keep his soul intact. At some point, he knew from previous experience, his soul would present him with a bill for that fractured wholeness.

In the extremes of blind need, he knew, there comes a place where thought is obliterated and all is sense and feeling. But after- when the body looses its hold, and the mind reasserts itself along grey pathways- comes regret, fine as soft falling snow at first, but building until it, like the avalanche, can break and suffocate. There was, however, no room for such a luxury as regret in the Soviet Union. The obliterating of history had eliminated the need for regret- for without a personal history, how could one have regret? How could one experience such a thing, when one was no longer a self, but merely part of a machine, a nameless cog without a voice?

This bill that he knew would come due, would only be sent from his depths when and if he found his way home and so until then he would keep running up the cost, for he might never survive to pay the debtor.

He allowed nothing of his own world to come here, not even the life of the camp outside these walls. He made of his mind a compartment and within it there was no one he loved, no places of familiarity, no memories of other bodies touched, nor eyes met, nor thoughts enjoined. He was merely a vessel here.

He had been tutored in the arts of lovemaking long ago, by women far more sophisticated than this one. He knew how to touch, how to play upon the skin and the nerves until his partner, whomever she might be, cried with need and want. He knew when to stop and when to begin again, and again, and again. He knew how to ruin her for all other men that would share her bed after him, it was his small revenge and he did it with precision and great skill. He also did it with hatred, the one thing he had allowed into the vessel, into the compartment emptied of self- hatred for her, and for himself. It added an element to the events that she responded to with vigour, and his body, barren in all but sensation, understood and replied to the attractions of it.

He watched her now, his own clothing shed, appreciating with the male eye, what her female form offered- the narrow waist and full breasts, the hips already tilting upward in expectation of what he had been ordered to bring.

He joined her on the bed, and did what he had been contracted to do.

Last edited by author: Wed November 03, 2010 16:55:53   Edited 2 times.

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