I stepped out of his closet into paradise.
Color and light. Huge windows. Space. Bookshelves to the ceiling. Purple walls. Hec's bed looked like something out of Middle Earth-- a four poster made out of tree trunks. Its roots appeared to sprout from out of the floor, and vines carved and wound around the trucks from base to canopy and across. No mistaking the craftsmanship; the same hands that made the grand staircase skillfully carved this same bed.
Until this moment, I felt no compunction searching the rooms in this home-- now I felt like a blasphemer to do so. I reverently ran my fingertips across his dresser, carved by the same hands. His mirror. His comb. I touched his curls caught within its teeth.
I felt like a love-sick fool.
I was acting like he was some deity, not the flesh-and-blood man who just an hour ago had me pinned to the dishwasher, making me cream my shorts like a schoolboy.
I turned to the bed, imagining what it'd be like-- him on top of me, in me, making me call out his name.
I could have it. I could be
here
, with him.
I crept up the bed, feeling like an outsider wanting to be in. I traced my fingers over the dark bed posts, so hedonistic-- the mattress lush and deep covered with a rich velvet bedspread. Ran my fingers over fabric; I never knew a color could be felt, but the purple tingled on my fingertips like sparks of light.
In an instant the room turned, changed. An odd, unexplainable aura filled it. Not Mary Poppins Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious magic. No, this was erotic. Desire, lust, want, swirled around me like a manic merry-go-round. Even if I hadn't known this was Hec's room, I would have been hard-- but imagining Hec spread out on the same bed I was touching, well, it made me want to take my dick out and mark my territory by spotting the crushed velvet with come. I eased myself down on the lush mattress, threw my legs and arms out. My cock was rock-hard for the third time today. I looked up--
Holy fuck.
Inside the canopy were carvings. Pornography, all sorts of acts carefully carved. The carvings were detailed, too. Men with men, men and women, women with women. Made me wonder what this bed was used for, and how Hec could possibly sleep here. Hec had to masturbate to these pictures. At least I hoped he did. Hard not to. Just thinking on one image in particular almost sent me over the edge. I wondered what kind of house this was. A brothel? And this bed? All a customer need do is point at a position and say, "I think I'll have number seven tonight!"
I knew if I stayed in this bed much longer, he'd find me here passed out after a good wank. Part of me wanted that-- but I'd rather not explain how I got in his bed.
As I got up, the flashlight I'd held tight in my hand dropped with a thud to the floor and rolled under the bed. I bent over to pick it up and suddenly felt dizzy, grasping the post of the bed for support. My mind was milk-toast and honey, and I was ready to faint with desire. Great, who was I now? One of those damsels with my heart pounding with longing that Hec writes about? That would be just prefect-- Hec finds me, sprawled on his floor, helpless and vulnerable. I could see it now--
Heccliffe sweeps me into his arms; my heart beating, fragile and fleeting. He carries me to his bed (
his bed
!). His breath puffs, delicate as he whispers in my ear, "My heart aches for your lips. My thighs long to push my manhood into your secret passage. Let's spend no more time verbalizing our desire-- come! come! Let us act now on what our hearts long for! I will make love to you, and you will forget that any other man ever existed!"
I point to position number three and--
Somewhere between me pointing to position three and him ripping my shirt off, my fantasy was interrupted: my eye caught something in the corner of the room. A small stand, and on that stand sat a carved wooden box. I forgot all about becoming Charlotte Rey's newest modern romance heroine. Instead, I felt compelled to walk up to the box, drawn by some new attraction. I stepped haltingly across the room and stood in front of the stand, staring at the box.
It was a simple box-- and although it didn't have the same carvings that the other pieces in the room had, something inside me knew it was made by the same hands. I took a deep breath, then crouched in front of the table, the box at eye level. I tentatively touched the latch on its front with my fingertips.
I caught my bottom lip between my teeth. I slowly lifted the lid. A music box, that sounded like no music box I'd ever heard. Tiny bells, delicate, swirling, with an enchanting beat, like a tiny drum inside it kept tempo. Although I didn't recognize the melody, I felt as if I knew the tune. The inside of the box was as plain as the outside; it contained but one item, wrapped in an old lace handkerchief.
I pinched the bridge of my nose.
What was inside? Should I open the handkerchief?
My hand hesitated, then reached inside. I jerked my hand out. Cold, so cold. My fingers icy.
Then I heard his voice. Shit. They were home!
I had to get out of here. Go back. Christ. I couldn't let him find me here.
The flashlight!
I scrambled on my hands and knees, searching under the bed. Dust bunnies, rolled up
Blueboy
magazines, and wadded-up Kleenexes.
He
is
human after all.
Maybe.
