by S Berry

Disclaimers: These guys are figments of my imagination and no one else's. Please leave them there unless you ask first. I don't know why I keep saying that; no one's ever asked or stolen any of my girls. It's just as well; I never have been very good at sharing. I blame too many sticky fingered siblings.

Well, this was originally intended to be a tongue-in-cheek exercise in deep purple prose and an excuse to use "I slammed into her cave of love via her tunnel of love" in a story, but it didn't *quite* turn out that way. It's -- well, it's still purple prose, but I don't know what exactly to call it. It's sorta parody; sorta not. There's sex involved, but there's so many odd euphemisms it's kinda not graphic. You might have to think a bit to figure out what's going on. Sorry, I invented new ones because that's what the story called for and I have too much time on my hands.

Feedback is always welcome: sberry@e-scribblers.com

Copyright © 2005 by S Berry. All Rights Reserved.

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I saw her again yesterday. I looked across the crowded bar and met her eyes. She was dressed in her usual tight black leather -- the whole deal; head to toe. Her body screamed long nights on sweaty silk sheets and depraved debauchery beyond your wildest imagination. Her smirk said she knew it. We walked toward each other. My heart was pounding like a tribal drum in a grade B jungle movie. She excited and delighted me like no other.

"Come home with me," she said as soon as she was close enough.

"Okay." As if there could be another answer. I would follow her into the fiery pits of Hell or even the dentist for a root canal -- anything or anywhere for a taste of the paradise in her black leather pants.

She took my hand and led me out to her motorcycle (big, black, and very, very sexy in that bad girl kinda way, of course). I held her as we drove to her place the way the apostles would've held Jesus if they'd had motorcycles. It was forever in five minutes.

Her bedroom was a shrine to sin; her bed an altar to the patron saint of passion. She stripped me of clothing and shame. She allowed me to undress her with the benevolence only a goddess can achieve.

Then, she took my confession and meted out my penance with a heavy hand and a loving heart. Each blow to my ass freed me from a lifetime of disappointment, of shame, of doing what society deemed normal instead of following the natural order of love. I offered her my prayers for absolution; for a god I could worship without shame or doubt or fear or shelling out my life savings. She offered me deliverance from convention; from the false morality of hypocrites. I took it; took everything she so generously offered.

She lounged on her altar and welcomed me to my baptism in her catacomb of mysteries. I dove into my task with all the fervor of a fanatic. I rubbed my face through her sacred elixir and baptized my tongue in the seat of her magic. I worshipped as joyfully and reverently as any disciple ever did. I visited her promised land as only a true believer can.

Later, she knighted me with her sword of truth deep in my cavern of new found desire. She rowed my canal of earthly pleasure with exquisite skill, just the right mix of power and tenderness. She freed me from the shackles of convention when she bound me to her bed with just a look. I quoted her holy book and keened hymns of passion and pleasure directed by the knowing hands of a master conductor. Then, oh then, she pressed the red button of my pleasure missile and detonated an explosion the likes of which mere mortals rarely experience. I saw stars, angels, perfect peace. She gathered me to her breast as I recovered from my rebirth.

Someday I'd learn how to attain peace on my own; to find acceptance of my societal sins without doubt or help and for longer than a night or two every week or so. Someday, I wouldn't have to hide and lie and deny my true self. But those were thoughts for Monday.

The End

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