The Summoning of the May Queen
Dedicated to M., for adequate inspiration.
Author's Foreword: This narrative contains clement use of power dynamics and titles (e.g. Daddy), impact play, and breathplay. All interaction within this fictional narrative is participated in by consenting parties over the age of 18.
"Lovers alone wear sunlight" - e.e. cummings
As I look around, the walls are accented with some hues of blue and red. The movements of my eyes slow, in surveyance of the various decorations surrounding me. I search for something to study, something to alleviate the thoughts darting around my mind. The occasional tingle under my arms is a brushstroke within the portrait of my verboten nervousness.
The room is somewhat brisk, but I almost feel some sort of shockwaves from the passing breeze on the outskirts of the window. In that moment, I am but a conduit of malaprops and inconsistent breaths. There's something inviting about the slackness of the linen. It's soft, and the gliding of my hand across it brings back memories of dimly-lit rooms on the precipice of twilight. I almost feel regretful at the thought of deflowering this ostentatious temple, to slide and shift it away from its serenity.
My hands are cold, but yet still, I reach into my pocket and grab the small container. Listerine breath strips. How fucking juvenile. The accomplice to many awkward moments shared on park benches and the stoops of obliterated fraternity houses.
Just for a moment, I think back to all the desires felt in those moments, seeking distraction from all the sighs and half-hearted hugs that often succeeded those desires. I guessed that it was better to lie awake with the forethought of grief than sleep in a den with butterflies of alimony.
I feel the strip dissolve onto my tongue. As my mouth is washed with some artificial pigmentation of wintergreen, I feel almost like a jester to my own court folly. They didn't see the hours before when I brushed my teeth, walked away, and still returned for some second serving of fluoride. All for some construct that may not even be acknowledged or studied in those few hours. Inevitably, that same sensodyne-laced saliva could blend in alchemy, giving way to a more carnal, exhibitionist medley of aftereffects. Some sort of token of mutual warfare and acceptance of one's thinly concealed urges.
I lightly tap my thighs, as if trying to keep time with my heartbeat. It's almost like I can feel a train passing through a tunnel, bearing a cargo that docks unaccepted. For all the colloquial knowledge of blood flow and oxygen, I still indulge each passing exhale. Desperately clinging for some sort of steady, yet elusive, regulation. I stand at the attention of each passing sound. Whether it's the soft lull of a speaker still able to bombard my senses, or the shuffle of footsteps I can't quite trace the pattern of.
Those steps are gentle, almost too gentle, as if they were hovering over the floor, only to supplement touch when its mistress feels so inclined to grace it with her physical presence. Time becomes but a dilapidated fantasy, of which to whom I'm bound and quartered. Any passing moment could yield the soft creak of the hinges, and the acquaintance of some daydream now evaporating into the mental fog around me, only to be reacknowledged when looking towards a guiding half-moon. I signed up for this.
As if I were crafting a manuscript, I recount all of the choices that brought me to that linen I now sit on. The words that stumbled out of my countenance. The touches I extended just a second more to feel the small of her back. Failure seems too imminent. I reach for the remote, even if it'll just be used to blankly stare at the television.
The sound of my rustling over to reach it almost feels criminal, as if I shouldn't even announce my presence audibly. Then again, I was guided here at the end of an outstretched hand. Told to be comfortable. Somehow that seemed like an oxymoron. Attempting to calculate your every move to present some air of boyish indifference only seems to lead to that same, familiar tension.
The door opens. Lost in my own thoughts, I sit unable to recognize that same creaking of hinges I had intensely imagined before. It's almost as if that slowly swinging door stands as an unnoticeable piece of foreground in the meadow of my mental obstination.
I'm still captive to the light that encircles me, the hammock in the corner of the room, and all the reflections of my eyes on each panel of the wall. To journey through some labyrinth of manifestation, whose walls are lined with novel excerpts and drunken boasts of swaggering prowess. In that moment, the world of my intellectual creation rests more firmly than the one I've legitimately found myself entangled upon.
"Hey..."
Her words almost taste like an ambrosia I've been unknowingly gifted. The drop in her tone seemingly reaches down towards the yearning I keep so well buried. It trails off, seemingly inviting some sort of witty, half-hearted response. Without thinking, I turn my head to glance at the bearer of my transfixing elixir. My eyes carefully begin to focus on what my body had so carelessly directed its attention towards. As if she had risen from the seafoam herself, a transcendent figure stood at the doorway.
Slowly, I compartmentalize the details standing before me. That same lace I had admired before, now adorned her tantalizing legs. It seemed to beg for the same caress I had previously given in the midst of my hypnosis. It converged with a set of matching black panties, outfitted with thin veneers of roses and Victorian spirals. Like something that made more sense adorning a well walked-through parlor.
It resembled some sort of unlocked gate, aching to be carefully passed through, as to avoid some form of desecration. But at that moment, all I could think of was how those roses and spirals would look wrapped in my hands, amidst the onset of a feverish intensity.
As my eyes continued to rise, and I searched for some matching brassiere, there was none to be found. Her breasts, exposed, upright, are alluringly feminine. As if they belonged to a siren who was destined to maroon me in the ocean of her gaze. Fitting that she opened the door with a call. An invitation to some form of primal depravity. Her face, lined with the glitter tears I had pictured so many times, shaded in a spectrum of color, were but a trigger to offset the innocence her eyes presented. At that moment, she is both Virgin and Succubus. A May Queen whose curves breed corrupt fantasies. Fantasies I'd replayed far too many times.
"Well, you look nice."
