The Second ComingbyAdrian Leverkuhn©
Henry Naismith walked confidently into the hotel lounge. His smooth muscled chest rippled under the freshly pressed white button-down Polo shirt that was his trademark. With sleeves rolled up two turns and just so, the stainless Rolex Submariner on his right wrist standing in bold relief on his deeply tanned arm, he seemed a man on a mission. Outside the cobalt smokey-dim room, through darkly tinted windows, Diamond Head glowed in dappled purple-gold hues, bathed in the fading light of a tropical sunset. The warm glow of the fading light wrapped around Henry Naismith as he stopped inside the room, his eyes sweeping like a piercing blue searchlight. Women cast appraising glances his way; men cast a wary eye, sizing up their competition. Henry Naismith smiled within his mind's eye, very well aware that his appearance relayed a much greater presence than his 21 years would have otherwise allowed.
He casually surveyed the room, the single men and women at the long mirrored bar, the couples deep in conversation within the sheltering grasp of deep wine-red leather booths. It was, he knew, fairly early in the evening, perhaps too early for the type of woman he sought, yet circumstance dictated his actions. His parents demanded an early start to the day, tours to be endured, always a museum - and Honolulu was awash in museums extolling the Amerikan warrior ethos - followed by an early dinner and admonishments to get to bed early. "Sleep is the thief of time," his retired Admiral now Congressman father would bark. Henry Naismith would as always watch his parents as they walked away - always walking away - his eyes fixed on the ethereal elegance of his mother's receding form. Within the limited time frame of his Spring-break from Stanford University, he was determined to bed as many women - grown, mature women - as circumstance and opportunity would allow.
Henry Naismith was dedicated to the proposition that fucking women was good, and that not all men were created equal. He cast his gaze around the room, taking in the receding hairlines and expanded waistlines of the men in the room, and smiled with the casual arrogance of his particular form of youth. He admired his father, his command over other men, and the easy surrender of a woman's charms that had claimed more than one man's fair share of broken hearts. And yet, at the same time, Henry Naismith despised his father, despised him for the casual ruin he had visited on his wife, the ruin his careless disdain and moral superiority, that his manicured Presbyterianism, had so relentlessly bestowed over the course of their statuesque marriage. His fathers's bestowals had crafted a shallow hollowness on the otherwise joyous and carefree soul of his mother; only the visible remnants of his mother's inheritance remained. And it was with his mother's stately elegance and refined demeanor that Henry Naismith had for the first time fallen in love.
Moving slowly toward the kaleidoscope glow of the bar - with the vast array of noble spirits and with their carnival of folly beckoning - Henry Naismith made his way to the far end and sat on a tall mahogany stool. Several attractive women, girls really, obviously here on their school holidays, sat within easy distance. Appraising feminine eyes furtively sought Henry Naismith's glance, to little avail. He ordered a Tom Collins from the bartender as his right hand sought out Spanish peanuts in copper bowls lined up at casual intervals along the bar.
The heady scent of Chanel hit Henry Naismith squarely in his soul. He felt a tremulous disturbance in the air, a ripple in the fabric of time as a wisp of clothing slithered across his outstretched arm. A faint shiver took him by surprise as his eyes looked ahead deeply into the mirrored reflections within the forest of rainbow-hued bottles; he measured the woman who appeared beside him as she made her way to the adjacent stool. His calculations made in a heartbeat, he instantly stood up and helped the woman into the - for her - awkwardly high stool. The woman cast an appreciative nod, and with quiet assurance thanked the handsome young man for his courtesy.
Henry Naismith felt as though the air had been sucked from his lungsas he looked at the woman, so complete was his disorientation. He covertly took in the beautiful woman beside him as he re-took his seat. The woman wore a cream colored linen suit, adorned with a simple red rose, accented with bone colored stockings and very high-heeled pumps. Her fair skin was accented lightly by faint freckles, her face an angelic form that radiated simple confidence, and all crowned with simply ravishing strawberry-blond hair. She glanced down to the gleaming surface of the bar, her fingers softly appraising the highly polished wood, stroking the surface in a way that Henry Naismith found enchanting. Her fingers had not the inept carelessness of youth but, he thought, the studied countenance of refined experience. He could see the motion of her hand clearly in the mirror, and a faint smile curled his lips. His eyes drifted back up to take in her face; with a start he felt her eyes lock onto his. What he saw took his breath away. Her face - angelic was a word that did not do her face justice - was dominated by soft pools of blue-green light that were her eyes. Unable to look away from the overwhelming beauty before him, he simply nodded his head as if to say "Sorry, you caught me." She cocked her head to the side as she met his gaze, and returned the nascent smile that grew on the young man's face. Henry Naismith sat dazed by an elegance that seemed impossible in any woman save his mother.
And so it was that Henry Naismith felt every fiber of his being come alive with electric desire. He felt his skin flush, sensed the hammering of his pulse in his throat and temples, and a warm moisture clouded his now softly clenched hands. His easy confidence gone, a broken dream in the heady aura of her eyes, he felt as though his ability to speak had evaporated in the heat of her gaze. Magically, a Tom Collins appeared before him on the bar. He turned to look the woman directly in the eyes, hungry for the experience of the sight of her, and asked if he could buy her a drink.
"That would be nice," she said, meeting his eyes with studied elegance. "What are you having?"
"Collins, a Tom Collins," Henry Naismith whispered. "Sorry," he continued, "throats a bit dry." She nodded to the bartender, and smiling, asked for the same. Henry Naismith noted a faint french accent to her perfect English. He guessed she was in her thirties. Her breasts were perfect, her jewelry understated, her long pale finger refined yet elegantly polished.
"I've not seen you here before," the woman said. "Have you been here long?"
"Got in last night. Late. Here for a week or so. And you?"
"Ah, I come here frequently as part of my work. Perhaps you should have some of your drink." He nodded, and lifted the tumbler to his lips. He noticed that as he brought the drink to his mouth she looked at his lips, that her lips parted and the faintest tip of her tongue came into view. He took a sip, of course with disastrous consequence. He coughed, nearly launching his drink, but caught himself as he felt the woman's delicate hand reach out to steady his grip. Now Henry Naismith felt himself burning with embarrassment, a cool bead of perspiration forming on his forehead.
"Now that was pure fuckin' grace," he exclaimed before he could catch himself. He looked at the woman expecting to find reproach, but was surprised to feel her cool hand lightly stroking his cheek, followed by a damp cloth wiping the boiling shame from his forehead. She cocked her head once again as Henry Naismith's eyes returned to hers, and again he felt as though time had stopped. Her eyes widened, eyebrows arced slightly, the pupils of her blue-green eyes so large that to Henry Naismith he felt that surely all of his worlds hopes and dreams could within that gaze safely reside.
"What are you thinking?" the woman asked. "You look so serious." She looked expectantly at the young man, her eyes now a mirror of his seriousness. "Is this a night for such seriousness?" Was there a trace of irony in her voice?
Henry Naismith took another stab at the Tom Collins, this time taking a careful sip from the glass. He took an ice cube into his mouth, swirled it around with his tongue. He suddenly felt as though some infinite power had hold of his soul, that the depth in this woman's eyes was somehow a reflection of her pure lust. With this realization a gripping lightheadedness overcame him. 'How cool must this look,' he thought. He felt himself break out into a light sweat.
"Let me help you to your room," the woman said, now obviously concerned. She motioned to the bartender, gave a room number, and stood up next to Henry Naismith. She took his arm in her delicate hand, and helped the young man stand. Taking the drink from Henry Naismith's hand, she placed it on the bar and asked the bartender to have several bottles of mineral water sent to her room.
'My room, her room,' he thought, 'what's going on.' He felt intoxicated not from liquor but from some subtle force that streamed directly from this woman's eyes into his soul. She steadied him with unexpected strength and walked him out of the lounge. A couple of men shook their head and chuckled. As Henry Naismith and the woman walked together through the magnificent old Hawaiian lobby he felt his composure return, a spring return to his step. As they gained the elevator, he took her hand in his. Somehow, someway, a perilous bargain had been struck, but by whom, and for what?
"Thanks. I don't know what came over me," he said as they entered. She tapped the button for the seventh floor.
"I would say," she said with no small trace of experience in her voice, "that you have a world class case of jet-lag." She had not refused his hand, and now she reached across with her other hand and caressed his forearm affectionately. "Would you allow me to take care of you for a while, or shall I take you to your room." "I'm feeling fine now. Really. Could we go to your room and talk for a bit." 'What was that about a bargain?' he thought.
"Yes, of course. I think some water and a rest will see you right. And perhaps we'll find a thing or two to talk about." She turned to look him in the eye once again, and a smile creased her face. As she looked at the young man's face, with the force of her compassion evident in her every mannerism, she smiled broadly and laughed ever so gently.
"What? What is it...what did I do now?" he asked. 'Yeah, they call me Mr Confidence,' he thought.
"I was thinking," she began, "that perhaps I would like to know your name. What do you think? Should we go that far?"
Henry Naismith puckered up his face and looked up at the elevator's mirrored ceiling as the door chimed and hissed open. It was his 'I'm gonna be funny now...' face. "Well, I dunno. I guess we could chance it. I mean, after all we've been through together..." He gave his best devil-may-care man-about town smile. Bond, James Bond would have been green with envy.
"...My name is Henry, Henry..." he said.
"I see," the woman said, with no trace of disappointment. "Well, Henry Henry, my name is Gabrielle. Rousseau. Gabrielle Rousseau. I am from France. A small city in the south...Avignon. Perhaps you have heard of it, yes?" Taking his arm in tow, the woman exited the elevator and turned to go down the hallway. They entered her room, a large corner suite bordered with windows on two walls and a balcony that wrapped around two walls of the suite. "Please, Henry Henry, make yourself comfortable," she intoned with a grin.
"My father hates Catholics. Of course I've heard of Avignon. Just because I'm American doesn't mean..."
"...That you are a barbarian. No, Henry. I suspect that perhaps you are far from being a barbarian." Room service arrived with the water and left after Gabrielle tipped the young waiter. Still Henry Naismith stood, looking out on the now dark void of the Pacific Ocean that lay beyond the glass walls. Gabrielle poured two glasses, grateful that someone had sent along several slices of lime. She walked over to the young man, and taking his arm moved him toward one of the suite's couches. "Please, Henry, please sit."
Henry Naismith sat. He handled the proffered drink, took a sip, and looked discreetly at Gabrielle. She sat in a chair that she had moved closer to the sofa...closer to Henry. She sat with elegant composure, her legs crossed, the toe of her elevated shoe describing small circles in the air. It was the first time Henry Naismith had seen her in her entirety, and he was again struck by the breathless beauty of this woman. He could feel all the world drawing into tight focus, the center of his worldview drawn tightly into the waiting depths of Gabrielle Rousseau's fathomless eyes.
"What is it, Henry?" Gabrielle asked. "What is this look?" With evident concern she moved closer to the young man. "I'm not sure I can put into words what it is I feel when I look at you. To say that you are to me the most beautiful woman I have ever met, no, ever seen...that doesn't really seem to be the point. But you take my breath away. I don't know you, but that too hardly seems relevant. I look at you and I see my feelings...they become clear to me...I see my feelings. Does that make sense? Perhaps it is simply an expression of my desire for you, but when I look into your eyes something within me stops. Time stops. Time. Or perhaps...I don't know, maybe there's something eternal...a cycle. I don't know. But I have never, and I mean this from the depths of my soul, never felt like this before." He took her in again...the strawberry blond hair, the faint freckles across the bridge of her nose, the luminous blue-green eyes. She uncrossed her legs; her stockings rubbed together, made a swishing sound as they touched, the sound drawing his eyes to her legs. Henry Naismith was then simply lost within the overwhelming beauty of Gabrielle Rousseau's legs, the flare of her calves, the height of the arches of her feet, the classic femininity of her pumps.
Gabrielle Rousseau leaned back into her chair, and slowly lifted her left leg, placed it gently on top of Henry Naismith's right thigh.
A subtle charge seemed to pass between these two people. The cycle had begun.
There was in that moment a pure measure of the eternal circle of life.
Is it a categorical imperative that paradigms define the collective unconscious?
Henry took Gabrielle's foot in his hand and softly caressed it, feeling the structure of her foot, moving his hand around her ankle and up her lower leg. He closed his eyes, wanting in the core of his being to memorize every touch, every scent of what was unfolding around him. He - with the lightest touch of his fingertips - gently arced his hands around her leg, the silk of her stockings imparting an almost orgasmic tingling in his fingertips. He slid down onto the floor, and supporting her leg, he kissed the side of her foot. He became lost in the leather-scent of the bone colored pump. He worked his tongue over her arch, breathing in the scent of her skin, as he massaged his hands into the muscles of her leg.
Gabrielle at first looked at Henry as he lovingly tongued her foot, then her head arced back, her breathing increased, and she lost herself in the intensity of this young man's ardor. Her finger tips bore into the arms of her chair.
She pulled herself out of her desire for a moment, and looking at Henry, she asked him to go into the bedroom. In a total daze, Henry moved away from Gabrielle's intoxicating skin, and sat looking at her - his breathing deep, sweat again lining his brow.
"I don't want this to ever stop," he said, tears welling up in his eyes.
Gabrielle came to him, placed an outstretched finger over his lips, and with the barest tilt of her head she gently hushed him to silence. Looking into the young man's eyes, she said, "Things are seldom as they seem, dear Henry. But this is a special moment, no? Perhaps this time shall live within us forever." Reaching down to him, she once again asked him to go to the bedroom.
Henry walked into the room and went to the bed.
"Take off your clothes," Gabrielle commanded gently.
She took the clothing from Henry and folded the items neatly, pausing to smell the shirt. She turned and walked to the bed and directly knelt between Henry's legs, taking his penis deep into her mouth. He grew rapidly under the influence of her tongue, the light biting sensation as she teased his crown, the violent spasms that accompanied her fingernails as they raked across his balls. Reaching his full size, he smiled as he watched her struggling to accommodate his substantial girth in her mouth. Never missing a beat, she twisted her hand in a jerking motion under her mouth, spit and pre-cum building at an incredible rate, pooling on his pubic hair.
Gabrielle worked on Henry's penis with a growing sense of awe. 'This boy is huge,' she thought as she swirled her tongue across and around the bulging crown of his cock. She took his sack in one hand and tickled it, with her other hand she began to lightly tickle his anus, all the while increasing the pace of her sucking. She was in her idea of heaven, a young man on her bed, his penis in her mouth, the anticipation of the coming flood driving her to ever greater need. Careful not to injure with her long fingernails, she slid one finger into Henry's puckered hole, and moved her other hand to circle the base of his shaft.
As her pace quickened, she slid a second finger into Henry's ass and dug the fingernails of her other hand into the base of his shaft. Henry thrust to meet her blows, and Gabrielle felt the head of his' penis begin to twitch and swell. Moans soon spilled into the air, gentle and slow at first but quickly building in intensity. Gabrielle marveled at the amount of pre-cum the boy had spilled, giving more pre-cum than most men would spew when cuming.
Suddenly, Henry's back arced and went rigid, an enormous flood poured into Gabrielle's waiting mouth, soon followed by twitching spurts of thick, ropey cum. She continued to swirl her tongue around the head of his cock as she gently withdrew her finger from his anus. Still cum continued to spurt; Gabrielle swallowed as much as she could as quickly as she could, not wanting to miss one drop of the young man's seed. She jacked his dick with her hands as she sucked voraciously on the still hard cock.
Suddenly spent, Henry moved to caress Gabrielle. He put his head in her lap and looked up into her now sad eyes. He wanted to say it, say to this woman that he loved her. It was stupid, pathetic, immature. It was overwhelming, wrenching, and very real.
"Gabrielle," he said. "I need you to listen to..."
Again Gabrielle placed a finger over the young man's lips as she hushed him. "Remember," she said, "things in this life are seldom what they seem. In time you will see this, know this. We are what we are."
With these words she carefully placed the young man's head on a pillow and stood up. She walked across the bedroom, carefully keeping her back to the recumbent form. She slowly unbuttoned her linen jacket and the silk blouse beneath. A white bustier remained. She placed her jacket and blouse on a dressing chair, and reached around to unsnap the catch on the rear of her skirt. She then pulled down the zipper that ran down the back of the skirt and let it fall to her ankles.
The young man rolled onto his side and with eager anticipation thought of what was to come in this night. He drank in the form of Gabrielle Rousseau, loved the essence of her being.