Me Quemo

Empty house, quiet. No noise of life, no frenzied greetings from kids or dogs, just silence. The dark and the lack of vibration tells me the house is empty, or nearly so, yet I am not apprehensive. The silence is more peace than fear, more restful than fearful. There is nothing to fear here, of that I am sure. This is my home, though my family may not be here for whatever reason.

The scent hits me first. Jasmine? No, more visceral, guttural. It leaves a thick coating on the back of the throat, swallow it if I could, but it's not there all of a sudden. Gardenia? Magnolia? Visuals of big, musky, waxy white blooms explode in my head when I close my eyes and drink it in. This is her doing, I know it. It smells nothing like her, yet it conveys her essence, her sensuality, her fire. Eyes closed still, I inhale deeply, letting the aroma sink its claws into my consciousness. It drags me toward it, begging for my attention, for my glance, an acknowledgment. As I open my eyes, the flowers tint my vision, filtering the light, my consciousness, the way I feel my home. Every color brighter, every shadow darker.

I can see the breeze as it floats by, eddying in my wake as I stir. I feel her, sense her presence. I am drawn to her now, yet I resist, as she knows I will. Too many sensations present here to rush out without cataloguing them, the better to describe them later, with my arms around her, whispering into her ear, exhausted and exhilarated, willing the warmth of her to ignite us both and send us back into that sepia-tinted place we inhabited for so long tonight.

Then I hear the music. I think it's music. It is rhythmic, and somehow deliberate, though so faint as to be barely discernible as manmade. A tribal rhythm, a primal ache in my chest, I sway along, unable to help myself. This is the hook, I know. Her way of guiding me to her, she knows I cannot resist it for long, despite my reluctance to stay and commit every instant to memory. It grows slowly louder, as if it were approaching, but I realize it is I who am moving, slowly, inexorably toward it, steps so deliberate as to go unnoticed. I see the notes, not as Disney-esque quarter and whole notes flying past in Technicolor, but as tones of color, shades of warmth in the air. As I move silently through the house, my perception is colored. The music, for it IS music, becomes more audible, the different instruments becoming clearer, yet clouding my vision. Raucous, almost, yet so controlled. As if kindling a fire, such precision and care put into summoning so elemental a force, uncontrollable by nature. The bajo sexto, its somehow organic bass notes reverberate, making the floor and the walls and the ceiling itself vibrant, somehow more present, more substantial.

The guitar, its pleasant buzz making the air rush past me, in a hurry to get to her, not understanding how I can resist, how I can keep from running headlong. Trumpet and piano slash the air like dueling swordsmen, the heat of their exchange making the room palpably warmer, aggressive and yet restive at once, like sleeping predators. Words, unintelligible to the ear, yet their meaning immediately clear, the voice expressing all that ever needed to be said, though standing next to the singer might not yield results ever expressed in any vocabulary. I can resist no longer. The scent, the music, set the room to throbbing, almost violent in its insistence. I must go.

Down the hallway to her, dimmest suggestion of light flickering from beneath her door. Though we both lay our heads together inside, it is her room. It is her refuge, her lair, she deigns to allow me entrance, solace. Through my palm pressed flat on the partially open door, I feel the music, her breathing, her heartbeat. Anticipation courses through me, adrenaline and desire combining in a heady cocktail to make every sense a razor, every hair an antenna.

Pressing the door open slowly now, as if pulling the curtain to a command performance. The room, transformed. Gone are the clutter, the frenzy of daily life, the toys piled in corners, the diaper boxes along the walls. No trashcans, no baby bags. Every thing in this room fits, so perfectly as to have been choreographed, to create an effect. It is perfect.

Thick white cotton berber carpets cover the teak-colored floor in layers half an inch thick. They absorb all sound as I pad into the room, silent as a cat, and as all-seeing. Dark mahogany dressers or consoles line the walls to either side. Draped with the sheerest of white cotton fabrics, they support candles in the dozens. Some lit, some not, they vary in height but not shade, the same organic white as the carpet and the sheers. Thin, thick, squat, airy, together they create enough warm, almost orange light to see the rest of the room changed as well, their smoke infused with the scent of waxy white flowers, of which there are vases full all over. The far wall painted a rich ochre, reminiscent of burnt pumpkins after Halloween's fervor, supporting a huge almost black wooden rod from which are hung more of the sheerest white cottons, pooling on the floor beneath the bed.

Headboard looming overhead like a Mayan stela, ancient looking hardwood carved with fantastical shapes of men and birds and creatures that are both and neither, stained nearly black with smoke and sweat and the oils and essences of hundreds of hands and feet and loving restorations and attempts to destroy it. The feeling of its having seen thousands of moments like this, and yet still entranced by the thought of what is about to occur beneath its gaze. The bed draped with thick stiff cotton linens that give to the touch, but only grudgingly, and with a silent promise to return them to their natural state. Seemingly hundreds of pillows in the same white, colored only by the shadows of each other, yet seemingly richer than the most verdant landscape. The room vibrates with the contrast of dark and light, peace and vibrance. Electricity is created from the convergence of opposing forces. This room is electric. And at its center, her gravity undeniable, her influence pulling us all to our fate, be it feast or famine, she waits.

Laying prone on the bed, her hair as a cloak, she lies relaxed and yet poised, balanced perfectly with the confidence that nothing in this room may ever move without her assent. She stirs, sensing me. She begins to rise, and though she faces the wall away from me, her head is turned, not looking at me, but simply registering my presence, and I can see dimly a thin smile of satisfaction on her lips, knowing her trap has been successfully sprung, and I am hers. She rises to her knees wrapped in bedlinen, her hair cascading to the middle of her back, black as a forest midnight, as the vaults where we hide our deepest secrets form ourselves. She turns her head from me then, dropping her chin to her chest as if gathering strength. I hear her breath then, through the spaces in the music, strong and controlled yet with the faintest audible quiver, for as much as this night is the culmination of her grandest plans, she is as excited and her pulse quickened as much as mine.

Her skin trembles as she rises to her feet, its smoky paleness somehow less fathomable than the oceans of white in which she swims. Her skin is like the surface of a pool, to touch her only to skim the surface of something far more profound, far deeper. As she rises, her arms extend to her sides, spreading the heavy fabric like a curtain, only her head visible, her hair like a tear in the sky against the pristine linens. The candlelight somehow intensifies, or maybe it is my vision growing more acute, but it glows through the sheet, outlining her silhouette in flickering tones of amber flame. She is naked, and though only a shadow, she exudes an anticipation volatile enough to seemingly ignite all the air in the room, leaving nothing for my hungry lungs but more of her.

She inhales, taking the measure of me through my scent, somehow I know she feels my excitement, my desire. Slowly she allows the weight of the fabric to draw the linen from her outstretched arms, revealing her nakedness, her vulnerability, and yet, her total control. Confidence, knowing I am in the palm of her hand and powerless to resist her, rolls off her in waves as she slowly turns to face me, the fire in her eyes flashing as they draw my attention, more than the perfection of her breasts, the soft planes of her belly, hips and thighs curved like God's own string section. I cannot look away from those eyes, though I can feel her smiling, the joy of a predator who knows its prey is helpless. Deliberately, the tip of her tongue materializes, moistening her lips and separating them, her breath rushing out now, her desire barely contained. I feel naked, helpless, an insect caught in the web of her gaze, unable to save myself, nor wishing I could. She kneels then, with all the determination and balance of every dancer ever to grace the stage, the darkness between her thighs growing deeper still, flickering shadows serving only to illustrate its unfathomable depths.

Her arm extends towards me, expectant, asking me to take her hand, muscles rippling beneath their veneer of cajeta, sugar and milk and water somehow combining to coat her in the impenetrable armor of her vulnerability. Before I can reach for her, she stops, and her fingers beckon me to her, insistent, yet patient, knowing she can wait and I cannot.

I approach the edge of the bed, my limbs leaden and seemingly unconnected to my body, and she stops me there with a look. Disapproving and disappointed, she looks at my clothes as if to burn them off with her gaze, and failing that, she approaches and begins to take them from me. If I thought to reach for her then, I could not have, her gaze fixing me with steel as she worked to remove these, the last obstacles between she and I, between spark and fuel. She, grace and steel, and I, clumsy and clay, finally lay me bare, nothing now between me and her heat. And how she burns! Waves of heat like a bonfire come from her body, from her eyes, from her breath as hot as glowing ash. I can only imagine how it will feel when she touches me, for as we stripped away my sheltering layers, her skin had not touched mine even for the briefest of instants, maddening and edifying at once, knowing I could not restrain myself should she deign to sully herself with my touch. She retreats into the oceans of white, backing away slowly on hands and knees, beckoning me with her glance, daring me to follow. Unable to mount the slightest resistance, and failing to contrive a single reason I should, I comply, the mattress's deflection causing my balance to fail and leave me flailing, desperate to remain upright and not to fail her.

I regain my composure, and advance on my knees, her laughing glance mocking my momentary instability. Compared to her, I am nothing, clay-footed and clumsy beside her near-mathematical poise. Balanced on the finest of fulcrums, she leans toward me then, stopping my advance with her proximity, approaching my face with hers, as if to kiss me, uncaring of the Earth's continued rotation or others' continued existence upon it. Before I can drink of her, she stops, so close I can feel her breath on my cheek, smell her hair stronger even than the blooms in the room, overpowering my sensibilities and leaving me feeling as if the edges of my world are turning black. She senses this, revels in it, absorbs the energy coming from me as if it were the sweetest nectar in Heaven itself, the blissful look on her face revealing all. Abruptly, she has her fill, and there is a decision registered in her eyes as she pulls away suddenly, turning her head, her hair slapping my cheek like a cat o'nine tails, I'm sure burns are blistering there before I can even blink.

I need her now, more than my next breath, skin aching to brush hers, mouth to taste her, fingers crooked and curled like a hag's claws with the thought of her in my hands. The desire to possess her is tempered by the knowledge that I never can, no one can, her mercurial nature serving to protect her from those who would dampen her light beneath the bounds of ownership. Though I am hers, she will never be fully mine, and for this I am grateful.

She leans back, wondering what I am thinking, upset that my attention may be distracted from her even for a second, not seeing that I have been thinking only of her since the day we met. Steel in her gaze as she moves to retake that space in my consciousness she believes has been unfairly wrested from her. She crouches, hands on the bed now, and moves forward slowly, her eyes never leaving mine, though she must look up at me now. There is no subservience in this position, only a sense that she knows she is dominant. She turns her eyes from mine, they widen as she looks down at me, disbelief registering on her features as she sees that I am not at attention for her. How could I be? Awe, disbelief at my good fortune, outflowings of love, and remorse for all the things I've never done for her all combine to distract my attention away from the mere physical nature of my desire. Yet even as I think this, under her iron glare, I begin to rise.

She is pleased, feeling fully her power over me, and decides to grant me a boon. With a knowing half-smile, she opens her mouth and takes me inside, not touching, just allowing me to feel the heat of her breath, making me as rigid as granite. Finally, she gives in to her own desire and closes her mouth on me, tongue sliding underneath and the slightest moan escaping her now. It is the first time I have touched her in hours that seem like years, and it is like ice and fire and somehow air, when she flicks her tongue around me and uses the faintest bit of suction to draw me out even further. She retracts now, finally her lips the only thing touching me, she lets them linger just for a second, reluctant to let me go. She straightens, lips glistening, eyes flashing, a thin smile playing on her face as she looks into my eyes. I am almost shaking now with need for her, the cold air hitting the wetness she has left for me contrasting with the radiance of her closeness.

She reaches out and takes my wrist, bringing it to her chest, cupping my hand and using it to cup her own breast, the perfect curve fitting into my hand as if made to be there. Of my own volition, I mimic the action with the other, both mounds now within my control, as she drops her hand and arches her back, giving me freedom to do as I please with these treasures. I stroke them gently with the tips of my fingers, unwilling to make a sudden or violent move and break the spell she has woven over us. I brush the undersides of them, and her nipples stiffen, mocha rosebuds flushing pink somehow as they awaken. Capturing each between thumb and forefinger, I roll them gently, pinching just enough to register on her face. Remembering how she touched me, I lower myself and gently take one into my mouth, letting the flat of my tongue paint her as I continue to roll the other, more firmly now. I gradually retract my tongue, letting it firm into a point in my mouth and gently stroking the bottom of her nipple, little moans of pleasure escaping her now. Back still arched, her head is thrown forward now, her hair falling around me like night's closing curtain, her scent filling my nostrils as her breast fills my mouth. Flicking my tongue now, her nipple twisted up into a knot, trying to get harder now as I pinch the other firmly now, twisting my fingers until she whimpers.

Shudders now as I reach my free hand around her and run my fingertips down her spine, resting at the small of her back. Head thrown back again, spine arching at an unnatural angle, she draws a catching breath, eyes flashing in the instant I catch her gaze. Heeding her unvoiced command, my hand cups her buttock, the warm muscle firm to the touch, unwilling to yield, yet soft and smooth as my hand slides around it, the skin growing warmer as I near her sex. I release her nipple from its torture with my other hand as my fingers find wetness in the dark, and she gasps. Letting her nipple slip from my lips, I softly bite her breast where it brushes against her arm. My fingers slip easily inside her, and she leans hard into me, giving me more room to move my hand behind her.

I raise my head now, as my hand is engulfed in the warmth of her, and look into her eyes, soft now and liquid, pleading. As I let my lips finally touch hers, as I breathe her into my lungs, eyes open and watching her eyelids shut languorously, she reaches and takes my length in her hand. I shudder with pleasure, and decide that our time is here.

Reluctantly, I pull my hand from her wetness, and reaching with the other, I cup her buttocks and lift her, pulling her towards me. It always amazes me that she is so small, so light, for she seems to command her own gravity when she enters a room, every eye drawn to her. Her hips thrust forward as I lean back, taking her weight as she slides down onto me. We are paralyzed with pleasure, neither of us able to move, afraid of what will happen when we do. Then, as I take a deep breath, my chest expands and pushes her back the slightest bit, though she clings to me as if I am her only hope of salvation in the world. A slight shift, and I slip deeper inside her, our senses exploding, the edges of my vision turning black, her eyes widening, the spell is broken, and no amount of sensation will ever be enough for us again. A handful of her hair now, pulling her head back to allow me access to her neck, nipping and biting as she rolls her hips forward and back, thrusting me into her ever deeper. Tendrils of her hair wrap themselves around my wrist, seemingly urging More! Harder! as I pull and twist. She is moaning now, sweat glistening on her shoulders, on her collarbone, her brow. I hear myself groan now, it escapes me though I hadn't thought I could make a sound, so in awe of her.

I release her hair as I lean back further now, the pain as my thigh muscles stretch to their limits swallowed up in the sheer majesty of her body. This new freedom allows her to access all of me, and she slides it in slowly as far into her as it will go, holding it for just an instant, before releasing a deeply held breath and sliding down an iota furher. It is all she needs. She begins to buck and thrust wildly, yet somehow in rhythm with the music rising to its frenzy around us. Her eyes are wild, I wonder what she sees as she looks at me, licking and biting her lower lip, as if it will offer her succor. I feel my excitement rising to match hers, my hands grasping at her, breasts and arms and thighs. I help her with her thrusting, my hips leaving the bed and raising her with me, the candlelight giving her an unearthly aura as she tosses her hair around her in a cloud of night.

She reaches her destination, suddenly, violently, eyes rolling back into her head, twitching uncontrollably as wave after wave of contractions wrack her lithe body. Her sex clamps down on me like a vise, and, unable to retreat, I thrust further into her, and she screams a primal shout, any hint of control gone now, she is mine. The contractions continue, her wetness rippling up and down my length, until finally, I join her in her bliss. She can feel me release, and she smiles, slowly coming to herself, her motions regaining their grace, leaning over to take in my scent.

I shift my weight, pulling my legs from under us, and she takes the opportunity to remove herself from me, the sudden emptiness shocking to both of us. She lays her head on my chest, rubbing her hand on my outstretched arm, sliding her knee up to cover my nakedness. A deep breath, held for just a second, exhaling as she turns to look at me. Shifts her weight slightly, leans to whisper in my ear the first words of the night.