Cinna

Fiction, of course, and all participants in sexual activity are over 18. One, in fact, is ageless. "Death in the saddle" with a twist.

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He was feeling his years, both the physical weight and the intellectual weight. And the tension of being a "grand old man" of his discipline and, simultaneously, of being a dinosaur, a hold-over from a by-gone era. A pioneer who no longer truly understood where things were going.

He had started his life in academia as a student of the mythological, some might say mythical, beings. He had been especially enamored of the psychopomps, those beings that came to shepherd the dying to the next phase of existence. The trajectory of his career took him into the study of compassion, with forays into medicine, both folk and modern, the comparisons of modern and "ancient" technology and, perhaps most surprisingly, law. But in the end, it was compassion that became his passion, so to speak. It was that line of study that brought him to the conference, the opening speaker of a three-day orgy of intellectual onanism in which presenter after presenter would attempt to either convey their understanding of hidden secrets of human culture or explain why someone else's understanding was fatally flawed.

His keynote presentation complete, he sought refuge in the hotel's opulent open-air coffee lounge. This was one of the things he loved about this hotel -- the courtyard with its water features, and the way the architecture created a natural cooling effect when there was a slight breeze. This afternoon, though, the air was still. It seemed as if everything around him had slowed.

The decadently rich essencia in front of him was just what he needed, dark and so thick the spoon he stirred it with would almost stand up on its own. The curl of lemon added a tartness that offset the potent bitterness of the drink. Think high octane Turkish coffee, and you understand what he was drinking. His eyes closed, he savored the aroma, then the mouthfeel and the taste. A luxurious, if small, reward for a talk well delivered. He opened his eyes to see he had acquired a table-mate. The hairs on his neck prickled. How had she joined him so silently?

Any number of things about her struck him as different. The hint of smoke in her eyes? Perhaps the way her hair seemed to move without the help of that now-absent breeze? Maybe it was the way she began to draw the words out of him without effort. While he was an accomplished public speaker, he was less than fluent in one-on-one settings. Especially those in which his discourse partner was so beguilingly beautiful. He typically found himself bumblingly tongue-tied.

She had introduced herself as Cinna. "Like the spice, just shorter," she explained. Not quite 5 feet tall, she certainly was short. And like the spice, her overall appearance evoked warmth. Her dusky skin glowed with an inner radiance. Her eyes, slightly asymmetric, were a deep brown flecked with green and gold. Her hair hung in jet black ringlets, all seemingly with a life of their own.

Her voice was like honey-mead, and her smile -- oh lord, her smile was a small fission reactor, spewing heat, light and subatomic joy particles. He simply could not look away, nor could he divert any other part of his attention.

Why on earth had this divine beauty chosen to sit with him, a pleasant enough looking man but no great prize visually? Maybe she'd been in the audience when he'd spoken about compassion earlier, and why there had to be room for compassion in leadership.

"I liked your talk," Cinna said, almost as if reading his mind. "Your words struck a chord in me, but I felt as though perhaps you had overlooked something."

Cocking an eyebrow, he replied, "I'm glad you enjoyed. Please, share your thoughts."

"You spoke eloquently of compassion for the 'other' as you put it, and for the process of leadership. Compassion for both the followers and the beneficiaries of the project."

He nodded. So, she had been in the audience.

"But you were silent about compassion for the self. If you omit self-compassion, how can you be whole enough to hold compassion for others?"

"Cinna," he said, quickly mulling the answer over, "might it be that self-compassion is implicit? And so there was no need to mention it in the talk?"

"Oh, I don't think that could work. What isn't explicit is often left out, lost." He could swear the neckline of her blouse lowered, baring a bit more cleavage. Perhaps she had just leant forward.

He frowned, concentrating on the implications of her statement. "What do you propose, that self-compassion must be considered consciously, must be acknowledged openly in order to not fall by the wayside?"

She nodded, and a lock of hair shifted to trail across the tops of her breasts. Was it her breasts or the movement of her hair that seized his eye?

"Exactly so. The element of self-compassion has to be held up and explicitly recognized. But that is not enough. The need for self-compassion, and the thing itself, has to be accepted, without judgment, without self-criticism."

Her eyes bore into him as she spoke. It was as though she knew that, as they sat, he was denying himself the pleasure of imagining what her touch felt like. Just as he had denied himself the pleasure of so many things over the years. Yes, he had lusted over certain students, certain colleagues. But he felt that his position of relative power meant he had to exercise extra caution to ensure he coerced no one. He never did think that maybe his denial affected not just himself -- maybe he was withholding compassion from those around him.

Cinna reached across the table and placed her hand on his. "You can't give others what they need if you consistently deny yourself what you want, what you need in order to feel filled."

A portion of his talk had involved the "hollow leader" and how such a situation was often doomed to failure. The leader, having forsworn the nourishment needed to be complete, had nothing to fall back on, and soon stumbled. Then the whole process could collapse into failure.

Removing her hand from his, she trailed her fingers along the scars marking out gnarled roadmaps of his earlier life. As she did, his hand tingled, and his breath caught.

"Professor, do you think there is ever an end to learning? A point at which there is no more to know?"

He laughed, shaking his head as he replied. "No Cinna, at least not for mere mortals. Divine beings may enjoy immediate, direct connection to the universal mind, but not we humans. Certainly not me." He smiled ruefully.

"What would happen if one of the 'mere mortals' joined with a divine being?"

"For the mortal? A glimpse of what it looks like to be filled with knowing. But I don't know that many human beings could endure such an encounter. There would likely be an overload. Besides, what do you mean by 'joined with'?" His mind drifted briefly back to his first intellectual love, the psychopomp. How "contact" there meant death.

With a smile revealing utterly perfect teeth, she replied, "union in whatever manner the human being desired. Emotional. Mental. Physical."

His breath hitched in his chest at the last word. "How could a physical connection be possible?"

"A question for the ages Professor." She stood to leave. His eyes caressed her as she moved.

"Good lord," he thought, a bit uncharacteristically, "what a delight it would be to hold her, to lay with her."

Cinna smiled again, leaned towards him and chastely kissed him on the cheek. "Soon," she murmured, "perhaps you'll know."

With that, she turned and in the blink of an eye, she was gone. He had no idea how she vanished so quickly. Almost like smoke in a sudden breeze.

"Silly man," he thought, not too unkindly. "There is no way she could know what you wanted, no way she would anticipate your thoughts, no way she could." His thoughts trailed off as he indulged in idle speculation. What if she was a test of his self-compassion? Would he permit himself the thrill of dreaming about being with her, or, should it come to pass, actually being with her?

Shaking his head, he called the waiter over to settle his bill. He'd treat himself to walk by the waterfront, then an early night. Room service and a peaceful evening.

The harborside was crowded with people. Conference attendees, families with small children in tow, singletons moving determinedly ahead, their bubbles of self-focused isolation pushing others out of their way, denying any contact with, or even recognition of, others.

He strolled from the tourist area to the working waterfront. Funny, he still preferred this side of things. In his youth he'd worked the boats, charter boats for tourists to have their water experiences and trawlers to bring home the fresh bounty of the sea to feed them.

Hard work, rewarding work. Not without risks, as his battered body bore witness. His hands had suffered the worst of it all. But he had no doubt that his current physical condition was due to the years of hard work as a youth. He was not shapelessly pudgy as were so many of his colleagues. Nor was he sculpted as the younger men on his campus. But he had been told his "dad bod" was attractive more than once. He'd simply blush a bit, and be at a loss for words.

He had reached a fenced-off area, clearly marked "no entry" so he turned to head back to the hotel. The crowds were almost totally gone. The fishermen were in the bars, recounting the triumphs and failures of the day, and steeling themselves for tomorrow. The families had gone to dinner, sitting around restaurant tables, mostly talking to their devices, not to the people with them. The self-absorbed all but vanished. It was almost as if they never were here. Perhaps their inability to acknowledge the outside world turned back on them, leaving them invisible.

Crossing the unseen boundary between the commercial and entertainment zones, he heard the rapid approach of feet behind him. A mugging was not on his agenda for the night, and he steeled himself for either self-defense or acquiescence. Usually giving in was the safest, tossing the wallet in one direction, running in the other.

"I knew I'd find you here," said Cinna. "This is one way you exercise self-compassion, isn't it?" He nodded, clearly surprised that she found him, apparently with ease. She added, "there are other ways, I think, if you'd only allow them."

He was certainly startled, but less than he was moments later when she took his arm and pulled close. Her scent wafted upward, and the warmth of her body so near to his was simultaneously relaxing and stimulating.

"Where are we going, Professor?"

Cinna's voice was rich, thrilling to his ears. She was staring straight ahead. They walked in silence for a moment or two, until she turned her gaze to him. There was a new light in her eyes.

"The hotel, my hotel, for a meal and ...." He faltered. Cinna smiled at him. "Yes, especially the and...." As she leaned into him, his arm brushed the side of her breast through her top. His entire body tingled.

His judgmental side, the non-compassionate part of him sounded hyper-critical alarm bells. "Oh no, no you don't, don't even think it, don't you dare, quit making a fool of yourself," cycled through his head like a klaxon, quieted by a powerfully gentle voice that said, "Stop, it's ok. This is good, this is earned. This is compassion." The critical voice was stunned into silence. Where had that other voice come from?

There was no conversation as they walked into the hotel, through the lobby to the bank of elevators, bypassing the restaurant. A bell chimed, doors slid open and they stepped into the elevator. He pushed the button for the 12th floor and turned. The next thing he knew he and Cinna were entwined. Her body was pressed against his, pushing him against the side wall of the elevator. Her arms were around his neck, bending him down to her level while simultaneously standing on her toes.

Their lips glanced, grazed and eventually locked in a passionate kiss. His hands traced the flow of her spine, from the nape of her neck to the swell of her buttocks. The elevator shuddered to a halt, chimed, and the doors opened into a deserted hall.

Cinna took his hand and led him out of the elevator vestibule, turning left, then left again and finally right before stopping in front of room 1246. His room. There was no way she could know. He'd said nothing, revealed nothing. The room key was in his pocket, hidden in its little sleeve, with the number 1246 written on it. He marveled, wondering, "how did she do that."

"Magic, Professor. Magic. Open the door now please."

He was in an altered state as he slid the card into the electronic lock. As the door swung open and they stepped inside, his mind reeled back to a time, 35 years prior, when he had been studying traditional healing and took a massive dose of magic mushrooms.

The ensuing trip lasted 8 hours exactly, a voyage through a land of jaguars, stone children, nut-brown dwarfs and bright, moving flowers. When the trip ended, the jaguars were gone, but if he turned his head quickly, the children, dwarfs, and flowers were right there. Even now, decades later.

Feeling arms around his neck again, he was snapped back into the here and now. He reached again for Cinna's back, and his fingers found flesh. Cinna had undressed stealthily. Warm soft skin with muscles flowing underneath. And there was something else flowing, something electric. Every time he touched Cinna his fingers tingled. And that tingle roared over and through him.

Her fingers found the buttons of his shirt, and she quickly relieved him of it. Her lips caressed the notch at the bottom of his neck, as her hands moved to his belt, then the button of his pants. Unbuckling it, Cinna kissed her way up to his mouth, her tongue sought his, prying open his lips. Her warm breath filled his mouth, his nose, his throat. The gentle taste of her inflamed his passion. Once again, judgment reared its head. "What are you doing, stop this, you can't have this, this never happens to you, you must not go here."

Cinna's lips moved as she softly countered. "Professor, you give to everyone but you. You cannot continue without compassion for you. Yield, give in to me and you'll be renewed, fulfilled." With that, his pants fell to the floor, and Cinna reached into his briefs. Her hand, small, soft and warm, wrapped around his shaft. His head spun as blood surged into his penis. Now, he'd had many erections over the years, and his head had never been moved this way. No, this time the intoxication was from Cinna herself.

His hands found her breasts and as Cinna's nipples hardened, her flesh seemed to mould to the size and shape of his hands. They were the perfect handful, capped by small brown areolae and perfectly proportioned nipples. "These are," he thought to himself "the ideal breasts, 'enough to fill the hands of an honest man' as the old saying goes." Once more, the critical inner voice piped up, weak and frantic, reminding him that he was naked in his hotel room with a woman he met mere hours before. "What 'honest' man would do that?" Cinna's hand cupped his scrotum and the critic was silenced again.

Cinna fluidly dropped to her knees and slowly, oh so very slowly, licked his hardness from base to tip and then kissed her way back down. Her lips closed on his balls, one at a time, pressing the perfect amount, pulling back just far enough. Once again, he felt she could read his mind. Moving her mouth, she engulfed him, swiftly, eliciting a deep primal moan. His fingers twined in her hair as she took him to the root and withdrew, slowly, only to plunge back down on him.

"Cinna," he gasped, "I'm about to cum. Oh good lord, I'm going to cum." Cinna hummed her approval, the vibration driving him over the edge. Twitching, shaking, he burst into her mouth as she purred her delight, swallowing every drop of his essence. She stood then and kissed him, her tongue luring his so that he tasted himself as he probed her.

Cinna took his hand, placed it between her legs and moved so she laid on the bed. As if by instinct, his hand moved, rubbing, swirling, pressing against her. Her hips thrust up, and he pulled his hand away to see the gift being offered him. All his life, he had fantasized about the perfect pussy. Rich, plump outer lips, between which nestled slickly sheening inner lips. The whole would open, in his mind, revealing the snug wet tunnel to ecstasy, set below a pert clitoris and perched above a perfect rosebud anus. This was what he saw when he masturbated.

And here, between Cinna's legs, was that very pussy, made flesh. He fell to his knees, to taste, delve, worship this image from his fantasies. His tongue darting, he tasted Cinna -- thick honey mead, sweet, salty, spiced. Cinna's cleft flowed with a nectar he had never encountered before. No woman had bathed his tongue as Cinna did.

He could lap at her forever, but suddenly her thighs clenched and her hips bucked. Her entire body rippled with her orgasm. He was suffused with lust, contentment and pride. Pride and contentment because he made this woman cum this way. Lust because he knew he was more adept with his cock than his mouth.

He stood as her orgasm ebbed, and abruptly entered her, driving his length deeply into her. Enveloped by her heat, her wetness, her tightness, he felt as though his cock would continue moving ever inward. He eventually bottomed out in her, felt her muscles rippling, massaging him, almost welcoming him into her deepest parts.

They began to move, Cinna rising to meet him as he drove in, pulling away as he drew back. A reciprocating motion, each driving the other inexorably to orgasm. Their moans and cries mixed as did their wetness, their flesh. Deeply entwined, joined at the hip, the crotch, at the mouth as their kisses echoed their thrusts. Faster and faster they urged each other onward. His orgasm took him quickly, buried deep within Cinna. Her heels crossed over his low back, pulling him into her with a passion and resolve he had never experienced.

As he froze in place, as his cock pulsed and his cum raced into her, he thought he had found heaven. "This is paradise, I have died and gone to heaven," said the little bits of his rational mind that persisted in the neurochemical overload his brain experienced.

"Yes, professor, yes my love, you have." He heard Cinna's voice in his head. At that very moment, as he emptied himself into her, he felt his whole awareness whirl off into the warm, welcoming wetness of another place of being. He knew that he never wanted to leave this place where he was held in a snug embrace and where there was nothing but fullness.

Hotel security opened the door to room 1246 the next morning. He had missed checkout time, and several colleagues had expressed concern for his well-being. He'd been seen the night before, alone, in the lounge, along the waterfront, in the elevator in moving down the hallway to his room with an odd gait. He seemed to be deep in conversation with someone only he could see. He was known to have had a few small strokes before. Some attributed them to his drive and tendency to overwork. Others, less charitable, blamed his dalliance with hallucinogens as a young student. "Cooked his brains," they said.

Security called for assistance when they saw his body. His features were relaxed, and one of the security team, a young woman, said the look on his face was one of contentment. The woman, practicing Buddhist, said it was the sort that expression she had been told can come to one who is fully immersed in compassion. The room was undisturbed, except for the bed where he lay, face-up, nude. Oh, and the pervasive scent of cinnamon.