As my feet touched the water, I was surprised to find it warm, like the water of a bathtub rather than that of a lake outdoors. We continued on in silence until we were hip-deep.
The waters were comforting, like the strangers’ presence, and I felt at peace despite the strangeness of the situation. I marveled at how realistic the dream was, and I asked, “Who are you? Please tell me, what is this place?”
“I am Shaya,” the woman said. She stepped toward me, embracing me tightly. Again I felt the galvanic response as our skin came in contact, and as I felt her breasts touch mine, I felt a melancholy longing for the kind of passionate touches I’d last experienced with Jenna. She pressed her lips to mine. They were slick with a thin layer of balm and tasted of honey; that erotic fire one feels at the kiss of a beloved partner coursed through my veins, centering in the sensitive cleft between my legs. I kissed back, and after a few seconds, she drew away. I was both astounded by the familiarity of the greeting and saddened that it had to end. Then the man took her place.
“I am Khellen,” he told me. He enfolded me in his muscular arms, and my knees grew weak at the feel of his hard musculature, and of the distinctly masculine bulge that pressed into my pubic mound. Memories of that night with Byron flooded my mind, and memories also of other men before Jenna, and I knew in that instant I wanted to experience with Khellen what I had with them.
He smelled faintly of grass and charcoal fire and manly sweat. I drew his scent in, breathing deeply as he kissed me, and electricity shot over my skin, making my nipples tighten and my nether regions tingle. I gripped his back lightly with my fingernails, and he gasped. He returned the gesture, bit my lip lightly, and added more passion to his kiss. Against my belly, I could feel his erection rise, and I moaned. With difficulty, I drew myself away.
“I feel as if I belong here,” I said softly, surprising myself, as I gazed into his eyes.
“You do, Merilyn,” said Shaya. “You are a part of us.”
“You always have been and ever shall be,” Khellen reiterated the words they had both spoken before.
I told them I didn’t understand.
“You would call this,” said Khellen with a sweeping gesture of our surroundings, “your world’s past.”
“But time,” added Shaya, “is not that rigid. In dreams, worlds meet, and time means little.”
“For now, you inhabit this world in your dreams,” Khellen said, “but on all worlds the Great Ones have touched, they have opened a portal whereby you might traverse the cosmic network of space and time and join us in physical form.”
“This,” said Shaya, “you have done and will do.”
They each grabbed one of my hands, and then each other’s, so we formed a triangle. I didn’t have long to wonder what was happening before my mind’s eye was flooded with images of past, present, and future, in which I was inseparable from Khellen and Shaya. As they had said, I was a part of them — their constant companion, friend, and lover. I knew then that life with them was my destiny, and I felt a deluge of love.
There, in the water, we embraced, and before my rational mind knew what was happening, we had moved toward the shore and were making love, our bodies entwined in the warm, shallow waters, illuminated by their green glow and the stars above.
Three bodies, three sets of lips, three pairs of arms and legs, all intertwined. Khellen’s hardness alternated with the softness of Shaya’s body. My fingers traced the sharp angles of Khellen’s hips, and the smooth curves of his companion’s. They gripped his manhood and felt their way into Shaya’s moistened folds, and their fingers found their way into mine. Our lips met each other’s and explored each other’s bodies, with tongues darting playfully in and out of secret crevices. Then something else filled those crevices as well, as Khellen moved back and forth between me and Shaya, showing both tenderness and all-out lust, meted out in equal amounts. I could tell that he loved me as much as he did Shaya, though I was new there, and Shaya offered to me the same passion she did to Khellen. As for me, I loved them too, and found them equally beautiful, for different reasons.
Hours passed, and I found myself brought to the point of ecstasy uncountable times. I know my lovers also reached those heights, but at some point, I stopped noticing. I simply gave in to the pleasure, letting go as we joined together, laughing, gasping, moaning, splashing in the waters near the shore.
The hours there in that Dreamland led to days, and days to weeks, during which I learned more about the world, in those spare moments when I wasn’t enjoying the physical contact of my companions, either separately or together. I came to understand my connection to Khellen and Shaya, that we truly were one at the deepest level, and that I had known that, somehow, in the depths of my soul all my life. That was why I had found myself attracted to Jenna and Byron — because they were, superficially, images of my true soulmates.
It’s difficult to be back here, without them. But I know I’ll see them again soon. In my vision that night at the lake, I saw the future, and I know where to find the portal, which the silver key will open. This will be my last entry, for tonight will be my last on colonial Mars. The past calls out to me. I will go to meet it, to spend eternity in the thrall of love.
CATEGORIES: LIFE, RELATIONSHIPS | TAGS: FINAL ENTRY | SHOW AUTOGENERATED LINKS
Steven James Scearce
THE ASSISTANT FROM INNSMOUTH
It was in the fall of 1937 that my bureau dispatched my services from Boston to the old Whateley estate in the Miskatonic Valley, near Dunwich, in Northeastern Massachusetts. I was to act as legal executor of the estate, tasked with cataloging the various properties on site for a complete valuation of the assets of the now-deceased Dr. J. S. Whateley.
My journey to the Miskatonic Valley was long and arduous, made only somewhat bearable by the cruising comforts of the spacious 1935 Ford Eifel hired for me by the estate. As this transport and all its creature comforts were of no small expense, I was naturally puzzled by the assignment. Nevertheless, I took pleasure in stretching out across the seats to the rear of the car, allowing the driver to take his time, and watching curiously as the wonders and mysteries of the unfamiliar valley played out before me during the long journey to Dunwich.
The valley itself was wondrously dusky and quiet, although somewhat ominous. Massive trees of deep green foliage populated the whole of the valley and at no point in my journey was my vehicle ever without cover of deep shade. The central aspect of the valley was the Miskatonic River, a broad, dark watercourse that babbled rapid but quiet, as if whispering urgent secrets that only creatures of the water could hear and comprehend.
Near the border to New Hampshire, some thirty miles below the mouth of the river, was Dunwich and the Whateley estate — my final destination. The property, upon first sight, was more peculiar tusehan I could have ever imagined. The grounds were overgrown and populated by scrubby, weather-worn trees — ill-kept by whatever staff and groundsmen were employed by the late Dr. Whateley.
The house was old but not decrepit. Four stories in height and perched high atop an incredibly-steep hill, it was a large wood frame construction in Stick Style architecture, with steeply pitched slate roofs topped by iron cresting. When I noticed no view of the river, my driver politely informed me that the river pooled up against the backside of the hill and broke into one steady flow around the west side to the valley. I commented that it was amazing that the river had not washed away the lonesome hill — to which the driver only replied with a soft chuckle.