The collection of voices downstairs stirred through the vents and rose up the tower walls. Though they were careful to lower themselves to sotto voce level, the woman could make out a few words, enough to catch on. A fleeting thought of decorum entered her consciousness, and just as quickly flitted away. She was in no state to play the role of hostess.

By the widest window in the high tower, she sat like a stone. Her bright eyes were on the western horizon, fingers rubbing a long, greying curl back and forth between them, thinking of the last and final time she gave her heart and her body away. It wasn’t the memories that haunted her, but the possibilities, all now lost to her forever. There were no more chances. Time had simply run out.

The small pink box in the corner captured her attention. Someone had written in scroll with care: “For Sale. Baby Shoes. Never Worn.” With a scream of anguish, she finally let the tears flow freely into her lap, creating a puddle next to her empty womb.

High above the banks of the mighty grey river, cars weave and speed and twist through the course with all the fury of a tidal wave approaching. Even higher above on a hill, sits a little blue house with two big windows, standing witness like God’s own set of eyes.

Below, they charge themselves forward, freewheeling and high full of arrogance, as it so typically goes. Despite the cautionary signs marked at every quarter mile, warning of the dangers, it’s more of the same on a rainy December morning. And amid the outcries of disbelief and anguish, the little blue house stands by silently, as if saying, “I told you so.”

The crash is a fatal one. Into the cold, dark river it goes, they go. Mangled pieces of steel and blood, all wrapped together, sinking below the fast-moving current. A crying shame, really. Another unavoidable wreckage finding its final resting place at the bottom of the mighty grey river while the little blue house stands guard, watching it unfold.

Give me the mystery of shadows and stillness. In the night’s quiet, I can be life and death itself, naked and free. Here I’m nothing but an illuminated silhouette dancing against the backdrop of the changing moon, crying and laughing all in one breath.

Will you walk with me here, my bright, sweet Sun King? Be by my majestic side in the velvet quiet of night, and hold my hand, and my heart in your golden grip. Let me show you who I am under the silver light of the moon.

Fourteen days ago, we were wrapped in each other’s arms, the backdrop of the Hudson behind us. You were laying on your side next to me, long legs entwined with mine, lips moving toward mine. When I reached for your cheek with my fingertips, you closed your eyes and leaned into my hand. I didn’t tell you, maybe I should have, but it was the first time that I knew that I never wanted to be without you again. I can be without you, sure, but I don’t want to be. Fourteen days ago, and for eternity, you are mine.

I close my eyes and see my future, not just in blurred focus, the way I imagine how most fantasize about their future selves, but so sharply and intricately wrapped within a labyrinth of details, like watching a movie. Do I have the power to yield my own destiny just by thinking about it, wishing for it?

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

At 73, she wears her hair long still, all raven waves with fine touches of silver, as if the streaks were painted on with a brush. Her tidy and vibrant home is covered in artifacts and photos from her travels around the world, along with the framed faces of those she loves the most.

She walks in the forest everyday, pausing to pick flowers for her table and to talk to the family of deer. Sometimes she takes the long path that winds up through the rocky coastline, and she sits for awhile to watch the whales in the distance, if they’re not feeling shy.

In the evenings, she writes, reads, or listens to the good music of the past, dancing without a care from time to time. Her writing now earns more than enough for her life to be comfortable. She has published a book a year over the past thirty years, and she happily donates her time and resources to help others regularly.

She has never been much of a gardener, but over the years, has learned enough to keep a small menagerie of fresh vegetables and herbs constantly rotated into hearty recipes. On the edge of the property, she has a small vineyard and wouldn’t mind learning how to make wine.

Every Sunday, it pleases her to host dinner parties, offering her loved ones nourishment through food, wine, and conversation. Her husband lives close by, but not underfoot, as she needs space to often be alone for her writing. It’s a terribly modern arrangement that works well for both and she loves him with a fierceness that surprises her after all these years.

It’s a privilege to reach this age, and in her life, she has loved and lost, been loved and been hurt, and through those experiences, has humbly and sometimes stubbornly learned the lessons that life was trying to force her to learn. Her life has been vivid, rich, and sometimes harsh, but she never stops hoping, laughing, learning, loving, or being kind. She feels safe and happy.

God willing, this is my future.

It’s not always in the words

All it takes is a timely pause

Or a long lingering silence

And then my heart sinks ...

I'm no poet really but much too late at night

When I lie awake mind racing and buzzing

Corners of my fancy sheets tucked in tight

Wandering I think about maybe coming

Coming or going not sure which is really right

And mid-click into something about gushing

Instead I ask google what makes knights white

And other random questions about humming-

Birds and what makes stars look like little lights

And why are some people good at running

Maybe I should just click into that fetish site

And the words from google keep repeating

Finally...the ceiling blurs into waves of midnight

The once tidy room had the appearance that it had been recently ransacked by bandits or pirates, or some other such collection of unsavory characters. The two bodies lay entwined together in a jumble of limbs, clinging to each other on the tarp next to the couch. To the casual onlooker, it was not initially obvious where one began and the other ended, unless you looked much closer.

They were each covered in a mixture of fluids and dried blue and black wax, but his had the addition of a parade of red welts down the line from his strong chest, to the tops of his legs. Her small fingers caressed the soft skin of his neck, pausing on his carotid to feel the steady pulse, a satisfied look on her face. He pulled her sticky fingers to his mouth and sucked, ending with a warning nip.

“My turn”, he said, a keen sparkle of retribution in his eyes.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Four hours earlier...

She waited patiently for him to arrive, surveying the room with a disciplined stare one last time. Everything for tonight was planned and prepared with precision, as was in her nature, and it was a trait that was even more accentuated when she was in the mood to take the lead. Like tonight.

He had been goading her for weeks, like a young boy unknowingly poking at a lioness in a cage, thinking it was merely a kitten and not a dangerous beast. She let out a low laugh, for she had demurely and gracefully let him poke, and similar to a lioness, she would take pleasure in playing with her food before devouring it.

Her breath hitched when she heard the faint purr of his Cadillac, pulling into her driveway. It was time.

When he entered, he instinctively took a step back and remained planted in place, eyes adjusting to the low light. His eyes scanned the room for her, but couldn’t see her yet. The room was jet black, the light from a few scattered candles just barely enough to see the plastic tarp covering the wood floors.

Next to the tarp was a series of unlit blue and black candles resting on a plate, a large pitcher of water, and a jar of coconut oil. And next to the utensils, she kneeled, as quiet as a mouse, flicking the lighter on and off, eyes glittering like two gemstones. She looked up and caught his eye, beckoning him into the space with a nod of invitation.

Her voice was barely above a whisper, but she knew he could hear every word.

“Take off everything, be silent, and lay down here. Put your arms over your head, my love,” she said, patting the tarp. She stood expectantly, waiting and watching as he shed layer after layer in a pile at his feet, and giggled excitedly as he pushed down the last trace of clothing, revealing an impressive erection. He looked down at her and shrugged, “Feels like I’ve been waiting forever for this.”

Without a word, she moved to him with a fierceness that he didn’t expect. Reaching up, she snatched his chin and tilted his face down to her. With her other hand, she reached down and grabbed him by the cock. She looked in his eyes, squeezed him tightly, and said, “Don’t make me repeat my instructions.”

She took a step back to give him room to obey, and to her delight, he silently laid down on the tarp, eyes closed and arms overhead. They had already spoken earlier about safety and limits, but she took time to review again. Once they were clear, she lit the blue candle and let the wax pool, stood high above him and tipped it over his naked chest, enchanted by the way his body moved when the wax dripped onto his skin.

Repeating the same process with the black candle, she watched as its drip-drops made designs down the sharp curve of his hip and onto the very top of his thigh. He breathed out a sigh, partly pleasure, partly pain, and she felt her own arousal spike at the sight of him. She did this until he was covered with a delicious mixture of cooling wax, sweat, and her favorite: anticipatory beads of liquid dripping from his cock.

In a quick swipe, she pulled off her panties, straddled his wax-laden hips, close enough to his straining cock to tease but far enough away for it to be uncomfortable and dragged the wet material over his mouth and nose, taunting him. He groaned loudly and bucked, wanting inside her. She rolled her panties up in a ball and stuffed them in his mouth. “Wait,” she warned him.

Walking in a circle around him, feeling his eyes on her, she wondered to herself how much more he could take. As if hearing her thoughts, he looked up at her, arms still obediently overhead, her panties gagged in his mouth, still and quiet, waiting for her, and her resolve shattered at the beauty of his submission.

She bent down, draping a leg over either side of his stomach, took hold of his very hard cock, and looked back at him over her shoulder to watch his face as she glided him in inch by inch. She rode him like this, wild and rough, until she devoured him, and in that moment that he came, colors flashing all around his field of vision, he anointed her The Queen.

“Pull over.” His eyebrows darted up in a silent question but he kept driving at a steady clip. Sounding too saccharine with my first request, I sharpened my words into three fine points. “Pull. Over. NOW.”

He nodded and cut the wheel hard. The car skidded to a hard stop under a thick canopy of Japanese Maples, leaving a spray of rocks and dust.

“Wha-a-”, I opened the door and bolted out onto the darkness, cutting off his question. He was watching, of that I was certain enough. I stood in front of the headlights, so that he could see me clearly.

I took down one strap, then two, and pushed my white dress down the length of my body, letting it pool around my ankles like a billowy cloud. A quick flick of the wrists, and I relieved myself of my bra and underwear too.

He stepped out, a private smile on his face.

Without a word, I walked back toward the car, hopped up on the hood, and opened my legs as far as they would stretch. An invitation? Fuck no. A demand. Maybe more a requirement.

He was with me in no time. I threaded my fingers through his golden hair and pressed his skilled mouth to the sensitive apex of my thighs, admittedly not pausing to worry about his ability to breathe in this position.

I pressed him to me even harder, holding onto the curve of the hood with the other hand. The only sounds in the dark night were the crickets, his tongue kisses, and my own breathless gasps.

I looked up at the stars and smiled my own private smile, feeling the first rough wave of pleasure hit me like whiplash. It was still early, after all, and we had many miles left to go...

Like falling into a pile of raked-up leaves.

That’s my favorite part.

The falling part.

Eyes closed.

Breathless smile.

Heart racing.

Catch me...