Muse - Stars Collide

It was something in the way she had said the word 'mindlessly,' that alerted him to secondary meanings.

He squinted at her.

"And if you must know, it's called the Diffie-Hellman protocol. It's for sharing cryptographic keys over public channels."

"I see."

"So I'm in a lot of trouble then."

"I don't see why. No one's going to find out. How's anyone going to find out?"

"People would be shot for much less in the past." He pointed out.

"Ah, Sion Daniels..." she murmured. "How little you know of the world in which we live today."

She turned and faced him straight on, looking directly into his eyes, before speaking. "We are living in a slow-burning civil war. And we are also entering into, a new Dark Ages. All the principles, the codes of society, are all changing. People are getting shot, in case you haven't noticed, and for all sorts of reasons."

"I don't really want to be shot, or arrested, nor have anything bad happen to me, as a matter of fact."

"Nothing bad is going to happen to you," she chided. "Here. Open some champagne for us and have some of the caviar -."

He took the bottle and realised it wasn't the usual shape, of course; not the usual shape of the champagne bottles he knew how to open.

"Here," she said, taking the bottle back from him, and tucking her skirt between her legs and placing the body of the bottle between her thighs. He noticed how physically strong she actually was - for the first real time he noticed that. She was a mature woman, but beneath the casual mature poise there was an altogether athletic body, too athletic, he now realised, to be just the consequence of effective genes. So easily, too, he saw her undo the wire tie and then release the cork with just thumbs and forefingers.

It was an enduring image, having her standing astride the bottle of Cristal like that. Her eyes flickered into his mesmerized gaze just for a second or two.

And she laughed again, and held out a Chardonnay glass to him and poured the Cristal into it.

She knew she was a very good-looking woman. And she was wearing that kind of make-up that counted - the deep red lipstick, the longer eyelashes, the tri-point shadings of fleshier colour and the ever so tiny glitters of diamond dust-like powder at her cheekbones.

At last his writer's creative mind provided him with something -, something, at least: "You know I'm sure I saw the present Tsar at a Christmas mass at some Russian Orthodox church, some place named after the Mother of Christ or something, and he looked pretty um, observant to me..."

"So?"

"Well what are his religious morals going to say about this kind of stuff?"

"Well what do your morals say about what we're doing?"

"You mean about the champagne and caviar?"

"Humph."

She turned away from him and walked towards the main door, and clicked the key that was in the lock on the inside of it. And then she turned back around towards him again.

"Try the caviar, Sion Daniels. You try it first. Hopefully they haven't poisoned it..."

It was something in her tone of voice, maybe a bit quieter, a bit deeper. "I'm going to turn the lights down a touch."

Suddenly he became conscious of the swelling movement in his own pants. And he started to absorb her sexual presence there, as the physical woman that she was, and that he had only just now begun to appreciate for its real underlying strength and confidence.

"Do you want to get away from all of this now, Sion Daniels, or are you willing to keep going?"

"What hope do I have," he breathed, with a certain touch of honesty.

"I'll tell you what hope you have of escape -," she said. "In a minute I'm going to turn on some music for us, and I want you to just think about this, as I'm standing here...

"Go on. Pick up a blini." She waved towards the silver plate. She was standing there, about seven or eight feet away from him, hands clasped down in front of her and against her skirt just above where the mound of her pubic bone would be.

He finally took a small round piece of buttermilk pancake and steered a spoonful of large black glossy, pearls of Imperial Siberian sturgeon roe onto it. It was highly odoriferous, and he could also sense the sharp saltiness that was going to be there right at the front of the experience even before he would crush the exploding spheres in his mouth.

"Yes," she murmured, almost in breathy undertone - "I want you to tell me how you find it. Too salty? Not salty enough? Just like the sea-spray on a cold Caspian Sea... Warm against your tongue when you pop them... Fishy like fish eggs...?"

Her insinuating voice, her soft gentle feminine tone, her sarcasm; he could only see her arms, the smooth white skin of her upper arms and shoulders. And then he caught a glimpse of stubble in the crease of her underarms as her figure seemed to swim in front of his eyes before him. But she wasn't really moving; it was the music that had begun from everywhere all around them, emanating from powerful but hidden speakers - sort of Cuban drums and some very modern jazz sax, and a heavy heavy Progressive House bass-line. And his head had gotten very light and his nostrils were flaring with his elevated breathing, and his penis was almost hurting against the front of his trousers as he got really very hard. "Be my vice, be my vice," she sang along with the tune.

All he could remember really sensing was a strong, bitter, iron-metal like, and warm fleshy body area and watery sweat under her arms as his hands and fingers went there momentarily, before they left for her breasts and then her clothing, the hemming, the fabric, the swathes and folds of it. And then, eventually, when his hands were up under her skirt, palms held outward, the backs riding up against the insides of her thighs and moving up to feel for her cunt, he remembered noticing she was not wearing panties at all. And as he placed his hard and extremely erect penis easily inside her, but helped with her hands guiding him just a little, he noticed how that she was still superbly confidently in control, and able to move positively against the rhythm of his urgent thrusting that was uncontrollably being driven by its longing only to be satiated by orgasming into her, deeply, and spurting lengthily until he had nothing at all left in his balls. And even then, there was a feeling in his perineum, a death-throe autonomic twitching that was nevertheless somehow still satisfying.