Now had the all-knowing agent who stood from a vantage point above, from the imperfect empyrean seat, bent down his gaze, to view the maneuverings of Joseph the Angel, as about him stood the sanctities of Section 6 and from his sight received beatitude beyond poetry; on his right was the monitor in which the radiant image was interrupted by his main ally; whom, within his rural sanctuary began to lament so eloquently upon New Urbanization, that highly-fashioned mixed-use development scheme that promised Norman Rockwell mirages to spring from front porches and tire swings as neighbors gabbed about the weather, the postal worker greeted little urchins with a friendly pat on the head, and the sprinklers fed the chem.-lawn. Graham talked on as he was joined by his new wife and as his voice resonated out into the firmament, his own private happy garden was explored in its blissful solitude and transitioned with cinematographical articulacy to scenes of the actual urban streets, as Joseph mounted a mending wall and shot out in the air like an archangel invading the terrestrial plain. It was then, that Vincent observed his substitute query.
Rage transports our adversary who cannot be bound by Fenris chains or dismayed by frightening chasms, so bent was he was on some desperate retribution for the hours and the days. Captain Vincent watched the prey as he was lit by the ambrosial vision of the blessed spirit who he had so recently bed and heard the words of her brother, by some false guile perverting the flattering lies he knew she had been serving him and providing him with an honest glimpse of the fall. No doctor created this spirit, so freely standing in mock ignorance, who has no true allegiance, no constant faith or love, where only her needs must do, whether he wished they would, for what praise could they take delivery of? The pleasure he received from such disobedience, when his will and reason (his choices) were useless and vain, for there was no freedom, but all was made passive and he would serve necessity. No force has caused this revolt, no destiny or fortune or fate, they themselves decreed their own rebellion, it was not for he, although he knew, for his foreknowledge had no influence on their fault, so without the least influence or trespasses, as authors of their own fall, as they judge from themselves of what they choose, they themselves ordain the collapse.
* * *
With Elisa laying across Vincent’s lap, in the Hotel Van Tryst, her mouth hovering near his throat, her breath rebounding off his airy, recently shaved neck, floating like fog up his jaw, it was the captain’s move, for she had suggested the purchase of a nameless bottle of wine, had directed him to the hotel, and had flung herself so carelessly onto him after several moments of hesitant silence (neither party missing the Blauian affects of the scenario). Captain Vincent was no expert in the art of spittle exchange, but he did have a certain seriousness about him when he did it that conveyed to the recipient how much he appreciated the shared experience. The captain gave the matter his full attention and avoided such abandonment that can lead to extraneous amounts of saliva trickling down the sides of the mouth and causing the other party to slide off of the lips. This simultaneously, though, gave the operation a clinical feel and Vincent had never been given the attribute of passion, causing, irreparably, the few women he had been fortunate enough to lock lips with a rather sour feeling for the entire procession, unnaturally causing them to move a few steps forward in the process and arrive at the final destination without sufficient lubrication. Thus, the ultimate aspiration of every man had always eluded poor Vincent; he had never experienced the throbbing, writhing wail of a woman in ecstasy. Fully aware of this, the captain was hesitant to embark on the operation with Elisa, fearing, rather compassionately, that he would so disappoint her that she would calculatedly end their relationship based upon his deficient skills with her wanting mouth.
Elisa, in striking opposition, had a kissing surface that seemed to be divinely ordained to be the absolute perfect place for a lovely embrace, the curve of her upper lip systematically met her palate, offering to a lucky fellow a Valhalla like curve for tongue twisting or, praise be to the lord, fellatio. Elisa had been endowed with two such heavenly flower buds, with a faint hint of bloody animation, that they seemed to plead for contact, one of the primary causes of her popularity, along with the stench of her pheromones that emanated out of her pores in a seemingly unique fashion, like a wild cat in heat. This aroma had been surrounding Vincent since he started the relationship with her, it was on his clothing when he got home, it was on everything she touched, it filled the room when she was present and it caused other men to make foolish gestures, to ignore propriety and make open advances towards her, even in the captain’s presence.
Now, she was on top of him, he could feel the pressure of her thighs on his legs, he could feel the soft underbelly of her arm against the back of his neck, and his entire face was filled with her smell, like an allergy.
Elisa, realizing the captain’s hesitation, lifted herself off of his lap, causing for a few moments Vincent to believe he had missed his opportunity, and walked back over to the table with the wine. She bent her head back and drew forth a large swallow directly from the bottle, sending streams of the creamy liquid rolling down the sides of her jaws, dripping onto her exposed collarbone and causing dark blots to appear on her blouse. She said something about her shirt and crossed her arms by her waist, lifting it off in one swift motion, exposing for him her bare front down to her belly. She tugged a knot on her left hip and the arcipluvian skirt she had been wearing floated down to her ankles, leaving only a thin, dark line of cloth between Vincent and her. He watched her like he had several times on the screen, focusing, commenting to himself the word exquisite, feeling the rippling heat well up within him. He kept his hand on the bed covers, unmoving, and she moved carefully over to him, stood just before the end of the bed, a few inches from his knees and slid her underpants down her thighs, then over her knees, and finally down her shins. He stared forward, her loins hovering within reach, her breasts so close to him the smell clung to streams of air, magnified by her nudity. With one forward step she was against him, tugging open his shirt, he felt her smooth hands slide his pants and shorts down his thighs, his eyes were closed and he could feel her naked flesh against him as he laid back on the bed, with her skin gliding against him. She inserted him inside and began to move, the quivering ache slowly growing within his belly, it began softly, like the opening of the great concerto, slowly building, sounds adding to the general peal of noise, within him, conscious of the wild whelps she uttered as she surged forward atop him, the strange rhythmic motion of her hips, his own guttural moans that he involuntarily expelled from his diaphragm, the building movement, the jerking slap of her hind against his thighs as the motion increased in intensity, every tissue, each pore of his skin, the electric shock of her touch, convulsing across his skin as he slid within her internal folds, until, as if the energy was erupting from within him, to implode within his gut and spew forth his entire essence, his eyes wet with unconscious tears, he spasmed, his fingers clenching the bed sheet, the sting of the sublime spitting out, and a sudden silence and inertia, only their breath slowly receding.