Nymph Chapter One

This is the first chapter of a novel I started when I was 22 (almost a decade ago!).  Although I managed to write six chapters since, I've been unable to work seriously on it and thought it might at least provide a 'short story' type entertainment to someone.

** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only **
image by Luis Royo


I.
         Laughter is lost somewhere in the sounds of the music... I hear it occasionally through the change of a beat, sometimes between the pulsing of the drums.  I see how it must escape the open mouths of smiling men and women, yet disappears in the air about us... 

        When I close my eyes I can almost separate the voices of conversation, the laughter, the music… it requires an effort I would rather not spend, so the individual noises fade and melt into one another...

         I rather enjoy wearing my eyelet Mardi Gras mask; it provides me with a sense of security, of hiding, though swells of reveling people surround me.  It offers a strange sense of isolation, as though I am alone and not fully revealed to any questioning stares that might pass (as though I am a secret).

         I think I may be a little drunk.  Enough that my cheeks are flushed, my skin is hot, the blood running through my veins is burning, but I am still in control, still aware of all that is happening around me. 

        I am watchful in my solitude.  I stand where the black-tarred street meets the cement walkway, somewhat detached from the chaos that dances in the middle of the roadway.  The night sky is riddled with stars; the air is warm and wet.  I sense Sorrow brush past for an instant, reminding me to move amongst the others...

        I seek certain company.  In this particular atmosphere I fancy someone like myself, someone looking for temporary physical company and who will not ask me to remove my mask.  Someone who will not ask anything…

        Casually, I scan the mass of bouncing bodies.  The shrieks of female laughter pierce my ears and the irritation causes a shadow to fall across my pretty face.  I glance back and forth, almost in a subtle effort to cast the feeling aside.  It lingers, and when I paint my smile I imagine the result is near-cynical.

        I delve into the crowd as though into an agitated sea.  Immediately I am pushed about, gently, pressured along an invisible path by caressing hands that seem to lead me.  There is another instance of irritation and Sorrow whispers, “Relax…”

        And what can I do but let myself become another wave in this ocean of bodies?  There is heat and accumulating moisture between my naked thighs, beneath my long skirt.  The celebratory air is infectious, the movement contagious, intoxicating.  It isn’t long before the music sweeps me away... 

        The sensation of other bodies, of warm bodies damp with perspiration against mine, conforming to my curves both front and back, is comfort.  I close my eyes in surrender to the pounding drums; the varying beats move deep inside my body... every inch of my flesh responds to the sounds that surround me. 

          I don’t know how long it is before I realize a continued presence, a strong hand that never moves from my narrow waist, a presence obviously intent to keep close to me.  It seems that the instant I take notice of him, his mouth is near to my ear.  He whispers, “You invite the music to make love to you.”

          The noise and commotion fade and the softness of his voice becomes the only sound... I become still, transfixed.  His voice in my ear is almost pleading: “Please, don’t stop.”

          Sometimes I can’t help how vulnerable a man can make me feel.  And I can’t deny that I sometimes enjoy it. 

          I don’t turn to see his face, not even to see if he wears a mask...  I slide easily into my sensual trance, true that the music caresses me like a lover.  I am somewhat aware of the moving sea about me: beneath lowered lashes figures move haphazardly to the rhythm.  I catch a passing glimpse of arms, of calves, of hips that sway back and forth… 

          I am more aware of this strange man behind me, who moves comfortably in time with me.  It is so seductive that he barely brushes me... just his constant presence, only his occasional touch reminds me he is there…

        Deliberately suggestive, I press my backside against his belly.  I feel salacious, and I don’t care who this man is! 

        He winds his arm around my waist to keep me close to him; the alcohol running through my veins coupled with adrenaline enflames me.  I feel vertiginous, uninhibited; I want him to touch me, but I don’t want to have to ask.

        His hand that isn’t possessively on my hip moves over the roundness of my backside; I’m sure he notes the absence of a pantyline.  His hot breath is close to my ear, telling me how beautiful I am, how he wants to feel all of me... his lips press against my throat: such warm wetness causes shivers across my skin, weakens my legs… does he feel me loosen in his embrace?

          I dance with his bent knee between my thighs, the sensation delicious.  The decadence surrounding me carries me away: the half-clad girls in their sheer skirts and bikini tops, the men who prance about with bared chests… it reminds me of tribal ceremony.  Women wear brightly colored beads around their necks, their breasts free and bouncing, and the energy!!  The energy...!

          The music seems heavier, faster, more laden with sex.  Steam rises from grates in the street, my flesh is silky with moisture.  The man crosses an arm over my chest from behind, almost protectively, but also as though he can’t bring enough of me near to him.  His other hand moves from my waist and beneath the high rear slit in my skirt; his lips taste the skin of my neck, he murmurs wonderfully exciting words!  When he finally slips a searching finger between my legs, I am hot with desire and my arousal wets his hand. 

          At first I move sensually, slowly, enjoying the feeling of such slight penetration, the feeling of his mouth in my hair, against my ear and my cheek.  Is everyone experiencing this heat? 

          His voice becomes fervid and eager, hungry like an animal; he says the most lustful things!

          “Please,” I murmur, wrapping my arm about his neck, arching my back to reach his ear with my lips, so he can hear me above the noise: “I want you.”

          I barely notice his tanned rugged skin, the blackness of his hair, or even the eye mask of silver flames and ebony that conceal his identity.  Instead, longing and determination consume me.

          My words have impact: he withdraws his probing hand quickly from between my legs, as though afraid I might change my mind, and hurriedly unfastens his pants.  I savor the rush he must experience, I entertain a fleeting thought to wonder if he has done this before, but it passes because I don’t care.  I care only of my own selfish purposes...

          His hardness against my back excites me; his hands rest on either side of my waist.  He moves down to his knees while massaging my legs, as though in worship, while I continue to dance and sway above him.  When he rises, so perfect to the continuing rhythm, he expertly pushes up part of my skirt.  I feel his sex against my bare ass, the fabric of my dress concealing our intent.  My anticipation is so great that my abdomen tingles the moment he prepares to enter me, the head of his sex pressing carefully against the velvet cushion inviting him...  It is I who refuses to prolong the foreplay, swallowing him regardless if he is ready or not.  I take him with greed.  He fills me; his presence inside is immaculate and disorienting. 

          Our sex is the movement of the music, his hands explore all of me: my arms and shoulders and breasts; he is voracious!  His hips grind close to my backside... I cast a look about to see if anyone notices our play.  Everyone appears forsaken to his or her own ecstasy... we are a sea of sex: the music instructs us, demands that we worship in this way!  There are flashing colors of emerald, purple and gold, fleeting images of strings of colored beads, hands on flesh, above the laughter I think I hear cries of pleasure… 

          Orgasm builds, stinging my legs and fingertips like the most tender of needles.  He must feel the tightening of my sex that clutches him like a vice because his embrace becomes stronger, more passionate.  I grab his arm for support, his explosion shatters my own, and the world around me is obliterated for an instant... 

          There is a whiteness, a purity for a passing moment, a calm and strange silence…

          Reality falls fast toward me as I recover, my legs quivering so much I can hardly stand.  Neither of us moves.  He cradles me now as though our dancing has simply slowed.  He whispers in my ear that I am incredible, and delicately brushes my dampened hair from my flushed face... 

          It is his tenderness that startles me, that brings reality rushing back at me: the noise and calamity about us, the chaos of scent, sight and sound.  I am afraid suddenly.  It is imperative I leave.  Now, whispers something in my head.  I suffer confusion, distraction, as though I’ve been dropped to the earth from the sky... 

          I move apart from him as though in slow motion, lifting the back of my skirt and dropping it as I turn to face him.  I feel an irrational resentment and bitterness toward him, almost as though I believe he teases me with his kindness; that his intimacy is a façade like the mask he wears.

          His attractiveness is startling: his full, dark, sensual mouth and his eyes that peer into mine, aware that my demeanor has shifted.  His eyes are stormy and inquisitive and knowing… like mine.

          We stare at each other from behind our masks.  The world around us continues to move rapidly; no one notices that he and I have slipped into another dimension where time moves slower. 

          The false smile provides a stained shield over my eyes, a cloudy sheath that appears as my lips curve upward, disguising my unease.  I notice a flicker of recognition in his face, as though he has noted this behavior in me, which causes further distress. 

          He just stands there.  It seems that he feels strange, perhaps something foreign to him… had he planned to hold me?  Had he planned to steal me away somewhere that we could be alone?  Did he want to learn my name, 'know' me?  Did he want me to remove my mask and now can he see that I would refuse all of these things? 

          I must leave now, and alleviate any possibility of marring this fantasy.  (My Fantasy; I forget he is more Human than Character.)

          Tracing his lips with my fingertip, I memorize their shape and texture.  I press my finger against his mouth to indicate he not speak.  Leaning forward I murmur, “Thank you…”

          I step back, looking into him, watching questions flash in his beautiful dark eyes.  I shake my head, No. 

          My heart grows heavy; I suffer guilt of possibly inflicting pain or confusion or torment, and I feel hateful toward this man who has given me only what I wanted…because Nymph chose to have him that way.