Infernal Fornications

'In the medieval period' (I almost said 'my era') 'there was nothing not suffused with religion. You have seen enough dedications, manuscripts, and textual polemics to know that the thought of God, and often his counterpart, was omnipresent. Why not now, too? Is the region of the sacred and the profane off limits to modern life?' My words challenged her.

'Don't we all worship? Something?' I continued. 'The numinous calls us when we least expect, and in erotic activities the call-and-response is magnified a hundred times. Was our coupling just now not in some fashion elemental, transcendent?'

She held my soft penis in her hand. It stirred. I willed it erect. She watched it harden before her eyes over several minutes. She looked at me, alarmed.

'But you just climaxed! It stiffened all by itself?' Her words had the timbre of accusation. She looked straight into my eyes.

'I have trained well, for those such as you.'

I stroked her left breast, soft and pliant under my touch.

'Yes, but take note, your nipples are still erect as well.'

She looked down, as indeed they were.

'They don't normally act that way.' She looked away, as if digesting disturbing information.

'After an orgasm they go quite soft. Usually.' Her eyes returned to me uneasily.

I offered a suggestion. 'Perhaps being so close to the Trinity they find they cannot relax?' A wry smile crossed her face.

She looked back at me. My penis was quite stiff, its shaft hovering an inch or so above my navel, pointing away, the head engorged, held tightly by my foreskin. Of course it was still damp from just having been inside her, and well pleasured.

'But the real divinity is not there with the Trinity', I said, her hands now around my risen trio of testicles. 'But here.' I squeezed my anus and my prick bobbed, the head waving like a talisman in front of her.

'So what is the polar opposite of the Trinity?' I asked, with provocation.

'The Antichrist?' she ventured, perhaps amused.

'Kiss the Antichrist', I said, twitching my prick-head in front of her face. 'See if you can withstand his charms.'

For a long time she looked me straight in the face, although her hands still cupped my testicles, running them through her fingers.

'Certainly you have read St. Augustine?' I asked. I could not imagine she had not.

'Yes, of course. De Civitate Dei, the Confessions.'

'Any of his anti-heretical polemics?'

'No.'

'In one of them, Contra Faustus, he elicited more clearly than anywhere else in his writings the nature of his thoughts on the evidence and cause of Original Sin.'

Her eyes held mine, and she cocked an eyebrow.

'It is here.' I twitched my penis again, stiff and rod-like, the head moving like a cobra. 'He noted the fact that is possible for men to control all the rest of their lives, all their habits, their behaviours, their bodily functions, even their thoughts, but not this...' I squeezed my anus and made my penis bob again.

'The lust-stiffened penis, the male member, is the foundational source of sin, the legacy of Adam. A penis can grow erect even against a man's will. At night. In dreams. Even when a man desires for all the world for his organ to remain quiescent, unaroused. Yet its power goes deeper, and when erect, everything it does is contrary to the notion of God. When emitting his seed a man cannot think of anything but his own pleasure. The idea of God, then, is impossible. Lust is the work of Satan, distracting otherwise firmly virtuous humans from their contemplation and prayerful approach to the Divinity.'

The vehemence of my words alarmed her. I suspect my oration sounded dated to her, but she of all people would understand.

'That was all the evidence that Augustine needed. The concrete example of man's Original Sin.'

'But what about women? We have no irrepressible penis. Does not that change the nature of lust?'

'Ah, but you excite lust. She what your presence has done?' I waved my penis in front of her face again, entreating her attention.

'How can one ignore an erect penis? The ultimate organ of desire? Which seeks nothing more but its own pleasure? Completely selfish, the diametric opposite of God.' The skin of my organ gleamed in the candle light, the veins outlined.

'Yet, does it not have its own, perhaps demonic, allure?' She looked again at my erection. The head indeed now was leaking clear fluid, aroused into a white-hot condition.

She held my shaft, stared into my face for some minutes. There was no need to speak further.

Eyes still on me, she extended her tongue to the tip of my member, gently poking into my slit, tasting my oozing fluids. Then her lips went over the head, and her mouth descended my shaft. Her eyes closed as she focused on taste and touch alone.

The warmth, wetness and subtle ministrations of her mouth were welcome, intoxicating.

The next hour represented one of those enchanting, early-stage intertwinements that inevitably develop between two new partners in the grip of mutual, relentless desire. Whilst we had coupled only three times, already we were avid for each other. She had already divined my cock-head's most sensitive spots. I had intuited the best means to tease her vulvar lips with my fingers, moistening them from time to time with either my own saliva or her channel's fluids. I had already gauged, and largely controlled, her own climax cycle.

The initial frantic excitement of our evening sated, we were happy to take our time for a second round. I straddled her chest, dropped my penis into her mouth, had my testicles suckled. I penetrated her on top for a leisurely non-climatic session, then took a break whilst each of us fondled the other with fingers and tongues. I ended up mounting her from behind.

I placed a pillow underneath her torso, elevating her bum, and for many minutes before penetration, I ran my penis up and down her glistening lips, whilst she inhaled with each teasing rub. Barely touching her lips, only the lightest graze to her clitoris, these teasing touches would become my habitual practice with her.

Finally a prolonged entry, millimetre by millimetre, as my penis forced its way in, sensing the gradual opening of her already well-spermed channel. Embedded up to my testicles, feeling the wetness of her groin hair, I twitched my penis inside her, gratified at the reciprocal squeeze-back she performed.

It was a slow, lovely fornication, an easy well-lubricated gliding, with pauses for me to lie on her back, squash her breasts together underneath her, rub fingers along slippery vulvar lips until her hips urged me into further thrusting.

I held her excitement in check for some time, but finally brought her release with violent strokes of my member, at the same time rubbing my fingers along her notch. Her eyes closed, my teeth in her neck, she growled face-first into her pillows, gripping my member with the force of Scylla and Charybdis.

My testicles tightened, a last long thrust, and my spawn erupted with a vibrant, excruciating intensity. Five more anal-clenches and my seminal load was completely discharged. I lay on top of her for some time, breathing into her neck.

After slipping my depleted organ from her sodden channel, I lingered by her side, she asking me, almost beseeching me, to stay the night with her. I could not yet let her know how difficult this was. I slept only a few hours at a stretch, except when completely exhausted, and found that my bed-mates never appreciated nor enjoyed that I had risen from bed to do other things during the night, feeling abandoned, or perhaps worse.

I cited work I needed which required attention back at my lodgings, told her that our sleeping together might have to wait for another time. She nodded reluctantly.

We kissed at her cottage door, and she looked up into my eyes.

'I shall be back in town on Thursday, the day before our "big dinner" of celebration with your colleagues next week. Might I see you Thursday eve?' I asked her.

She considered for a moment. 'Perhaps you could come here? I worry if we meet at The Boar too often we will be noticed. This is not such a large town, after all.'

'I have thought of that as well, yes, good idea.'

We parted with another kiss at the door, and a promise of an after-dinner visit Thursday next.

*****

Sophy was nervous letting me in.

I sat on her sofa, her cat approaching me easily and staying close. She sat across. She poured me a glass of wine, a Barbera which I was pleased she had on hand. Since we were not in a pub, there was no need to subsist on ale.

'I have so many questions for you!' she began breathlessly. Her cheeks were flushed, which I found arousing. She was twitchy, slightly off-centre. Perfect.

'About the manuscript?' I asked.

'Yes, I have gone over it many times this week. But other questions as well.'

'I will answer three only', I replied. Her expression reflected disappointment, perhaps annoyance.

'Three tonight', I added, which eased her a bit, the suggestion implying that there might be more at a later time.

'What do you know about the author of the piece? This "Abelartus?"'

'You must pose the three questions all up front, so that I can answer them fully, in a nexus.'

Her eyes went a bit wild.

'So the author, yes, what are your other two?'

'About the manuscript's connection to Sponheim and Trithemius.'

I nodded.

'And then, perhaps most importantly, who are you?'

I laughed. 'You have my card. Phausto Sabazios, from Thessaloniki.'

She shook her head . 'No, I mean really. Who are you?' Her unruly head hair shook appealingly with her defiant movements.

'Alright, three questions it is. You may be satisfied with the answers to the first two, although you will have developed more by the time I am done. The third I will answer to the best of my ability, but you may not be content with its completeness.'

She looked at me sharply.

'But who is anyone?' I asked. 'Could you answer that yourself if the tables were turned? In one night? Who is Sophy Eastern?'

The dimple reappeared. 'Of course you are right. But let us begin. The text's author?'

The manuscript, as she had guessed by now, was not as simple as it seemed. And of course the only reason the university had come through with an offer was because she had convinced them of that.

I told her that the text was Abelartus' only work, which was was true in a literal sense, if not strictly accurate. It was the only work in his name. I told her as well that Trithemius had been his disciple in the dark arts before their regrettable falling out, and that it was the abbot himself who had urged the production of the work in 1498, with some urgency.

I filled in some gaps in her understanding of that troublesome Benedictine monastery at Sponheim, of the wild nature of theological debate in that time just before Martin Luther inaugurated the Great Disruption. How unsettled the intellectual sphere was, how deep the magma seethed underneath the surface of the Church, how built-up forces were straining its tectonic seams.

I did not tell her that she was sitting across from 'Abelartus' himself, that it had been my hands who had inscribed those carefully coded words, blotted the ink, and then completed the colophon, just as she had guessed, in a powerful hurry, for speed and secrecy had become critical to the book's future.

We talked for some time, and as I predicted, each detail I furnished only generated further questions from her. I finally waved a hand. She looked piercingly at me.

'So Phaustos, who are you?'

I began with the obvious, mentioning my university education, such as it was, at Heidelberg. She was surprised I only possessed Bachelor's and Master's in Arts, not a doctoral degree. I was not yet ready to tell her that I incepted in 1484.

I told I had read Aristotle and Boethius, but also less traditional works.

How manuscripts had fascinated me, ever since I saw the first one. How they allowed the arc of knowledge, or for me, subversion, although I did not mention that part, to travel along the paths of men, creating networks of understanding, leading to action, and change, sometimes of a cataclysmic nature. How the aesthetics of text production often appealed to me as much as the content.

She nodded. She had seen her own share of handsome medieval manuscripts.

'So where are you from?'

'Greece', I answered and she frowned in annoyance.

'Of course, but where? When?'

'The island of Patmos, off the coast of Anatolia.' I avoided the second part.

She started. 'Doesn't the legend suggest that John the Baptist visited there?'

I shook my head in assent. 'A little before my time.'

She nodded but I could tell she was having to weigh each statement I made, trying to determine truth value.

'My boyhood was spent amongst trees, of orange and other citrus.' I continued. 'There was neither running water nor electricity in our home.'

She nodded. She could not know that neither would reach the island for many centuries after my birth.

The questions grew detailed, more pointed. She was less satisfied with the answers. For the first time in our conversations together it felt as if we were engaged in a cross-examination. She probed unceasingly.

'How did you get from Patmos to Heidelberg?' she pressed.

'Ship, then overland by horse', I let slip.

'When?'

She eyed me intently. A long silence ensued.

'In 1479', I finally said. There was no point in continuing the dissimulation.

A long, fraught silence hung in the air between us. Our eyes met. Wind blew tree branches outside the window. I could hear a clock ticking somewhere in her house.

'You are Abelartus.' Her words were soft, breathless.

I bowed my head. 'At your service.'

Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth, then shut it slowly.

'I thought that might be the case.' Her voice was small, just above a whisper.

She looked away.

In a quiet voice she continued. 'The handwritten note you left me on the chess set? Our first night?'

I nodded.

'I tested the ink in the lab.' Her fingers fidgeted. 'The composition was identical to the ink used in the Abelartus - rather your - codex. The text's ink dated from circa 1500 of course, and your pen's ink is contemporary. But it appears to be the identical chemical formula.' Her eyes sought mine.

'You still make your own ink? No modern pen utilises such an archaic combination of ingredients.'

'I find some habits from my past difficult to shed. And it is a fine ink, dark black and durable. You must use a gold nib however, over time the ink is corrosive to other metals. Although finding suitable oak galls is harder than it used to be.'

She nodded, recognising the importance of this particular ingredient.

She was silent.

'So I have been copulating with a five-hundred-year-old man.' She paused again.

'A small correction, if you please.' She looked at me keenly. '"Fornicating."'

Her eyes glinted. 'Copulation is not exact enough a term for our activities?'

'Never use a general category term when a more precise one can be employed.'

'Every sexual act we have undertaken is prohibited in the scriptures. We are not married. I am not sure that any religion or ethical system, anywhere or at any time, would sanction our behaviour.'

I continued. 'You said you read Augustine's Confessions?' She nodded. 'You remember what he said about pears?'

She smiled thinly. 'Yes, as a boy he stole pears from his neighbour's tree. He said that a stolen pear always tasted sweeter than one gained by more legitimate means.'

'That is the difference between fornicating and copulating. The former is always superior.' I looked at her, thinking how delectable it had been to first ravish her, make her body quiver with lust, flood her with spawn. And then do it again, and again.

She held her breath for a moment. 'Yes, I suppose you are right.'

'But enough questions. You have learned enough about my history for the moment. It is time we learned more about each other in other ways.'

We made our way to her bed. Our coupling was short, intense, and then we lay next to each other. She looked quite spent.

On her back, she turned her head towards me.

'When do you leave?' She meant my flight home.

'The Saturday after our dinner tomorrow. I drive to Heathrow in the morning.'

'Is your given name Abelartus? Or Phausto?'

'Neither, although the latter is closer. You should call me that.'

For the dozenth time she looked at me with surprise, sceptically, but she accepted my explanation.

I left regretfully, looking forward to our rendezvous the next day.

*****

Our Friday dinner in town with the negotiating crew went well, everyone in good spirits. The wine flowed easily, we traded stories of unusual manuscripts. Even Murdoch had a tale or two to tell.

Finally, the group began to break up. Murdoch looked a bit unwillingly to Sophia. 'I expect you will require a ride home?'

'Which direction do you need?' I asked, feigning ignorance.

'I live in Oakington, to the north of town.' A faint smile flickered over her face.

'I am staying in Huntingdon', I lied. 'Are you far off the main road? Perhaps I can drop you off?'

Murdoch looked relieved, he clearly was not relishing a late night drive that would take him out of his own way home.

She climbed into the Aston and we drove the now familiar route to her cottage.

It was an odd night. My departure the next day had obviously affected Sophia more than either of us imagined. She wanted to know what was next, what trajectory our relationship might take. I could see that she had become far too attached, not just to me but the entire scenario, the enigmatic text, the abrupt purchase by her university, the tasks now in front of her.

Our talk grew a bit calmer. I promised not only to stay in contact, but assist with textual analysis in her publication efforts. I also, to her evident relief, indicated that I would return to town in four months, and would stay for several weeks. We would have extended time together.

Our coupling that night was intense but tinged. She climaxed early, and hard, but dissolved in tears when I left. Despite a womb full of spawn and the languid exhaustion our coupling produced, she was most unhappy.

*****

I returned in early November, after what Sophia had described as a glorious autumn. It had stayed unusually warm though October, with only desultory rains. Yet I arrived on a cold day with deep swirling fog off the fens.

Our correspondence had been productive, although neither as frequent nor as satisfying as I knew she wished. She had sent me drafts of her paper with the somewhat unwieldy title 'The Abelartus Text: A Fifteenth Century Labyrinth of Lexicons and Hidden Meanings'. It had become quite good, her analytic qualities and codicological expertise were exposed in her narrative and impressive by any standard. That I could add context and decipherments of the manuscript did not hurt. I knew she would be anxious for serious discussion.

The latest draft of her article had been provisionally accepted to a prestigious palaeographical journal, although one reviewer had raised serious questions about the 'liberties' she had taken in interpreting sections of the text, doubting the connections she drew from Trithemius' work. He was quite mistaken of course, but she still would have a challenge in refuting his objections.

Part of my time on this visit would be devoted to assisting revisions to her draft. She joked to me about the difficulties (and impossibility) of crediting me on the piece, as consulting with the actual author of a medieval manuscript was not a traditional academic practice.

On my first visit back to her place, by prior arrangement, I parked some distance away from her cottage, at a nearby small public walking park. We had decided that discretion suggested my Aston was too noticeable stationed in front of her home every visit, and that it would be best not to excite neighbourly interest.