The Summoning of the May Queen

The Summoning of the May Queen

Dedicated to M., for adequate inspiration.

Author's Foreword: This narrative contains clement use of power dynamics and titles (e.g. Daddy), impact play, and breathplay. All interaction within this fictional narrative is participated in by consenting parties over the age of 18.

"Lovers alone wear sunlight" - e.e. cummings

As I look around, the walls are accented with some hues of blue and red. The movements of my eyes slow, in surveyance of the various decorations surrounding me. I search for something to study, something to alleviate the thoughts darting around my mind. The occasional tingle under my arms is a brushstroke within the portrait of my verboten nervousness.

The room is somewhat brisk, but I almost feel some sort of shockwaves from the passing breeze on the outskirts of the window. In that moment, I am but a conduit of malaprops and inconsistent breaths. There's something inviting about the slackness of the linen. It's soft, and the gliding of my hand across it brings back memories of dimly-lit rooms on the precipice of twilight. I almost feel regretful at the thought of deflowering this ostentatious temple, to slide and shift it away from its serenity.

My hands are cold, but yet still, I reach into my pocket and grab the small container. Listerine breath strips. How fucking juvenile. The accomplice to many awkward moments shared on park benches and the stoops of obliterated fraternity houses.

Just for a moment, I think back to all the desires felt in those moments, seeking distraction from all the sighs and half-hearted hugs that often succeeded those desires. I guessed that it was better to lie awake with the forethought of grief than sleep in a den with butterflies of alimony.

I feel the strip dissolve onto my tongue. As my mouth is washed with some artificial pigmentation of wintergreen, I feel almost like a jester to my own court folly. They didn't see the hours before when I brushed my teeth, walked away, and still returned for some second serving of fluoride. All for some construct that may not even be acknowledged or studied in those few hours. Inevitably, that same sensodyne-laced saliva could blend in alchemy, giving way to a more carnal, exhibitionist medley of aftereffects. Some sort of token of mutual warfare and acceptance of one's thinly concealed urges.

I lightly tap my thighs, as if trying to keep time with my heartbeat. It's almost like I can feel a train passing through a tunnel, bearing a cargo that docks unaccepted. For all the colloquial knowledge of blood flow and oxygen, I still indulge each passing exhale. Desperately clinging for some sort of steady, yet elusive, regulation. I stand at the attention of each passing sound. Whether it's the soft lull of a speaker still able to bombard my senses, or the shuffle of footsteps I can't quite trace the pattern of.

Those steps are gentle, almost too gentle, as if they were hovering over the floor, only to supplement touch when its mistress feels so inclined to grace it with her physical presence. Time becomes but a dilapidated fantasy, of which to whom I'm bound and quartered. Any passing moment could yield the soft creak of the hinges, and the acquaintance of some daydream now evaporating into the mental fog around me, only to be reacknowledged when looking towards a guiding half-moon. I signed up for this.

As if I were crafting a manuscript, I recount all of the choices that brought me to that linen I now sit on. The words that stumbled out of my countenance. The touches I extended just a second more to feel the small of her back. Failure seems too imminent. I reach for the remote, even if it'll just be used to blankly stare at the television.

The sound of my rustling over to reach it almost feels criminal, as if I shouldn't even announce my presence audibly. Then again, I was guided here at the end of an outstretched hand. Told to be comfortable. Somehow that seemed like an oxymoron. Attempting to calculate your every move to present some air of boyish indifference only seems to lead to that same, familiar tension.

The door opens. Lost in my own thoughts, I sit unable to recognize that same creaking of hinges I had intensely imagined before. It's almost as if that slowly swinging door stands as an unnoticeable piece of foreground in the meadow of my mental obstination.

I'm still captive to the light that encircles me, the hammock in the corner of the room, and all the reflections of my eyes on each panel of the wall. To journey through some labyrinth of manifestation, whose walls are lined with novel excerpts and drunken boasts of swaggering prowess. In that moment, the world of my intellectual creation rests more firmly than the one I've legitimately found myself entangled upon.

"Hey..."

Her words almost taste like an ambrosia I've been unknowingly gifted. The drop in her tone seemingly reaches down towards the yearning I keep so well buried. It trails off, seemingly inviting some sort of witty, half-hearted response. Without thinking, I turn my head to glance at the bearer of my transfixing elixir. My eyes carefully begin to focus on what my body had so carelessly directed its attention towards. As if she had risen from the seafoam herself, a transcendent figure stood at the doorway.

Slowly, I compartmentalize the details standing before me. That same lace I had admired before, now adorned her tantalizing legs. It seemed to beg for the same caress I had previously given in the midst of my hypnosis. It converged with a set of matching black panties, outfitted with thin veneers of roses and Victorian spirals. Like something that made more sense adorning a well walked-through parlor.

It resembled some sort of unlocked gate, aching to be carefully passed through, as to avoid some form of desecration. But at that moment, all I could think of was how those roses and spirals would look wrapped in my hands, amidst the onset of a feverish intensity.

As my eyes continued to rise, and I searched for some matching brassiere, there was none to be found. Her breasts, exposed, upright, are alluringly feminine. As if they belonged to a siren who was destined to maroon me in the ocean of her gaze. Fitting that she opened the door with a call. An invitation to some form of primal depravity. Her face, lined with the glitter tears I had pictured so many times, shaded in a spectrum of color, were but a trigger to offset the innocence her eyes presented. At that moment, she is both Virgin and Succubus. A May Queen whose curves breed corrupt fantasies. Fantasies I'd replayed far too many times.

"Well, you look nice."

Those words seemed to shamble out of me. It was the only thing I could create from the swells of my flustered speech. For all of the poetry I'd written, and the vast extent of my prior concealments, I found myself transformed into some creature of basic instinct. I'm sure the surprise I felt was besmirched all over my grin. The trenches of my wanting, made both body and seductor.

At that moment, a skirmish rages between my limbs. One side seeks to graciously extend my arm to the Vestal, as if seeking some courtship through fields of barley. The other wants to take and ravage her like some soldier returning to his mistress after a long-suffered war. For lack of tantric command, I resign myself to prolong an embarkation.

"Well, what do you think?"

The sound of her voice seems to regulate the cacophony I'd been plagued with.

"Can't say I haven't imagined this", I reply. That boyish, "fuck you" attitude still sheepishly covering in the place of "fuck me". There's no shame in embracing a mutual affectation towards mind games. Without silence and that hint of hesitation, there's no fulfillment in that eventual, infernal, release.

Once again, I hear those same floating footsteps, but this time I can see its conjurer. She walks as if she's led by some cosmic pull. As if she can't help but let her legs slightly cross in front of her, teasing you as they get closer, while simultaneously maintaining distance. Like she has no awareness of how her body sways in some rhythmic, charming way.

As if bewitched, I slowly begin to sit back, letting my arms melt into the bedsheets, maintaining my admiration of the portrait that slowly moves towards me. As she stands right in front of me, I bear witness, in some euphoric horror, to those same roses beginning to straddle my waist. As her arms begin to wrap around my back, I take in the toxin of her perfume. With a simple, elongated breath, I descend into a trance. One in which my lips uncontrollably chart the smoothness of her neck. Tenderly, with the stern mission of leaving no inch underappreciated. With each rocking of her neck, I find myself eternally unsatiated.

"You just don't understand how bad I want you". A rare bit of honesty from me, a phrase I simultaneously regret and feel intoxicated by.

"Is that so?", she replies. The calling card of her wit. How she holds up a mirror to your own supposed cleverness. Always seemingly one step ahead. In most cases, I'd simply brush it off and ignore my inner instinct. Allow my better conscious to stand between two lines, holding back some urge to correct that wit. This was not one of those times.

Like some magma finally emerging from the bevy of smoke and fog, I finally uncover the sense of commandment. As if instantaneously switching aspects, I grasp her shoulder and gradually drop it down, to where she now lays flat across my lap. I can feel the warmth of her thighs across my knees, and I'm now looking down at an ass that looks far too unmarked. As if I were some mystic, my tone deepens. It loses that bounce I wear as a foolish masquerade of my indifference. It becomes short and forceful, forsaking that stutter I seemed to always fall towards.

"This time, I won't take that fucking wit from you, do you understand?"

"Oh really? That's what you're going with?"

That clever fucking mouth. In some sort of rejection of her ploy for power, I grab some mass of her hair, gently pulling her head back towards me. It's as if I hold some token of a secretive and impulsive nonverbal dynamic. I see her back arch, more prominently presenting her ass, which tempts me even more. It ignites the fire within my eyes, some incendiary symbol of a shift in one's restraint... and tolerance for disobedience. I feel every vein within my body loosen. I am but a hunter, content to turn this virginal conduit of faked obliviousness into a plaything of my depravity.

"From now on, my name is 'Sir' or 'Daddy'. Do I make myself clear?"

I pull just a bit more firmly.

"Yes, Daddy..."

"Good girl... we might have fun after all". As I say this, my hand lightly grazes the curve of her hips, slowly shifting around the surface of her ass. It's like I'm evaluating some unstained canvas, picturing just how I could create shades of red. Without hesitation, I raise my arm, as if it were the preluding act to some great expulsion.

"Is this what you want?"

With a slight sway of her legs and a coy, unassuming nod, I take in the feedback. Although I almost follow through, I don't operate on possibilities.

"I want you to speak when spoken to. Is that what you want?"

"Yes Daddy, please..."

With the trailing off of her voice, I let my hand impact the ass I'd imagined for too long. Feeling the reverberation created by the blow seems to, paradoxically, increase my fervor. I feel her jump slightly, but at this point, she's not going to get away with that shit-talk. Not this time. I spank her again, devilishly admiring how I could finally put that succubus in her place. Even if it's just for the moment, I become intoxicated with the power to feed into her desires. To turn her on, and play into that mind I've grown so much to admire. As this grows in repetition, I notice those red marks I'd manifested. The visual representation of each held back instinct to press her against a wall for talking back, now acutely present.

"Why don't you sit up so I can watch you tease me?"

I help her back up, and carefully pull her off of me, letting her slowly get back to her feet. As she takes a step back, I see that same May Queen lose a flower off of her crown. As she gently bends down to unclasp her stockings, I cut through that moment of silence.

"No. I want you to turn around for me."

As she turns around, I get a second glance at my handiwork. Some mark upon the Vestal's dress, hidden but for only the giver and recipient. She bends over, and her legs seem to never end. As if unconsciously wanting to participate, I mindlessly fumble with the buttons on my pants. The clasp seems to hold back my expression of self-inflicted satisfaction, even if that expression seemed to bear its own controlling forces. Finally getting it undone, I can't help but rub at the top of my boxers through the opening of my jeans. That body, with a mind of its own, now has my unrelenting attention.

"Be a good girl and come help me with this."

As she drops to her knees, I can see her begin to crawl on hands and knees. She makes every move with this forbearance of cunning. Like she knows just how to play me. Even if I'm in control, she still knows just how to make me wait. I take her hand, and after clasping it as some subtle way to check on her, I lower it towards the top of my zipper. As she helps the linings of my pockets fall to my feet, I look down at the art that adorns her sides.

They convalesce into some portrayal of a Venetian fresco, perfectly shadowing her soft skin and well-framed back. Her fingers, well extended by the nails she so routinely flashed, simple, yet strikingly salacious, meander back up my legs.

"I want you to be a good little slut for me, do you understand?"

"Yes, Daddy."

With that, I find myself now just as exhibited as she is. Exposed, carrying the weight of omnipresent insecurities and well-tempered rehearsals. The replaying of fictional scenarios now written upon the ink along her torso. My sinner's half left almost aching from the long, drawn out anticipation. As the palm of her hand takes root over it, I find myself questioning the validity of these circumstances. Just why I find myself so led to take her in all fashions, regardless of purity. She begins to stroke up and down, and I once again steal a moment to look into her eyes. The crown has lost yet another flower, but the tingles surging through me doubt they'll be sorely missed.

At this moment, her tongue begins to emerge. I try to prepare myself for some unreplicable feeling. One that can't be placed until it's completely overtaken you. I pictured those glitter tears fading into well-run makeup, a living testament to that same primality I'd become a slave to. There seems to be a place for that aftereffect, even if just in the annals of my poetry. I wanted her to acquire some reminder of just what she had gotten herself into. The servitude we would so mutually soon apply. I relax my senses, closing my eyes in order to better accept her judgment of my rock-hard cock, and languish in the sentencing it provides.

Warmth.

I feel the dampening her mouth provides, and the faint pull that seems to follow closely behind it. She's teasing me. Once again shifting the balance for her own twisted amusement. She must enjoy seeing me wrapped up in my own meditation, far too eager to oblige it. Her tongue gently swirls, cleansing me of the precum that had been so impatiently rearing its cards. I open my eyes to see those same lips I'd noticed in the front seat of her car, during a drunken haze, now torturing me with how round they were, and how sophisticated they moved. She looks so good with my cock at the edge of her lips. As she brings back her hand, combining the two in some ultimate form of control, I'm unable to resist that temptation any longer. I find myself once again wanting to craft my plaything.

"Good fucking girl... go and lie down on your back for me..."

"Is that what you want, Daddy?"

She stops, and looks at me with the grin of a TA looking to advance their placement in a professor's hierarchy. She's irresistible, in all the ways I've grown to despise. As she goes to lay down, her legs spreading slowly, I take one more moment to stop and think. About all the mistakes I made to catch myself within this web. All the things I should've kept muttered under my breath as I snuck glances at her ass when she walked to her car, and the invitations I should've politely declined. In any other circumstance I would've aligned myself with virtuous proselytization. But fuck those.

I begin to climb on top of her. Now I'm the one who gets to control the tempo. Make her wait. In retaliation for all the nights I spent with a fantasy-fueled hard on, all caused by the way she toyed with my attempts at flirtation. Made me constantly want to one up her, if not to finally please my mistress. I reach down and slowly move my cock, teasing the outside of her folds, already observing how wet and inviting she's become. Firmly, from side to side, taking note of each passing twitch and the feeling of her clitoris, of which I only slightly allow my cock to acknowledge. The sins of a virgin start with but a simple choice. The eagerness of her body telling me the things I knew her bratty attitude never would. I take that same hand I'd just used as some dominant instrument and place it around her neck, playing into some long implied affinity for breathplay. It all seems to come together too naturally, like some greater power now takes hold of both of our bodies. All while my brain scatters between the other ideas that have long been accruing.

"Please Daddy... please..."

Mistakes. Bullshit. Lust. Restraint. Indulgence. It all seemed to lead to an unforeseeable, yet still inevitable, conclusion.

In. Out. In. Out.