Bedevilled
by Jonathan Quince
Saturday, February 7, 2004 11:11:07
Bewitched and enchanted, she falls rapt to the charms of a stranger. Yet no stranger is He to the dreams of the wicked. Nameless in power, a dark visage walking amongst the stars, He hears the voice of her mind speaking dark prayers of wanton urgings; her beggings intrigue Him as she lays forth her corporeal greed to ensorcel a lover as the plaything of her lusts. With the delicate irony of diabolical whimsy, He sees fit to grant the very mirror of her wishes; inverting her will upon itself, He transfixes her with ardurous delirium to make her His slave.
Would she who claims to be concubine of Hell’s Wrathful Circle fall ensnared by the very spell she sought to cast on her lover? For Hell’s own Master, it seems, has cast his eye o’er the crowds of His minions and thus found her. Carving ancient symbols across her soul, has He called her? Troubled beyond answer, her dreams threaten sane judgment with seductive whisp’rings and unspeakable temptations.
His eyes transfix her gaze, growing ever deeper and more piercing; twin pools of fiery darkness mesmerize her, drowning her will, flooding her with euphoria as she sinks inexorably to the depths of possession. The deep crooning of His voice, soft and enchanting, overwhelms that merest of resistance she has will to throw against Him; lulling her wariness, inflaming her excitement, the whisperings of His words seep into her consciousness and weave invisible nets against her freedom. Words, yes, words come falling from the darkness like droplets of light over her being; each strand of a syllable runs like the horsehair of a masterful bow played over the strings of her soul, eliciting her spirit to songs and to moans.
Suddenly naïve as a virgin sacrifice, she goes docilely to kneel before Him. Innocent at last, her sins undone as she falls to daemonic servitude, she floats down her place at His feet. Stretched forth in submission, her body is taut, exalted in the fervor that has haunted her dreams; libations of praise well up in the delicate parts of her femininity as her body embraces its place as an offering and prepares to accept Him.
Scooping her up in His arms, He kisses her. As a sacrament of communion between lovers, kisses share intimacies between the souls of mortals; no mortal He, His kiss consumes her, sucking away through His lips the last shreds of her will to resist Him. His caresses o’er her body sends shivers of anticipation running up her spine and down to the root of her being. Ecstasy engulfs her, penetrating her like lightning; and the fulfillment of her body becomes the fulfillment of her dreams as He enters her at last.
Bedevilled is she, damned to torments of passion. Pleasure is her punishment, and love’s pain her reward. For as courtesan of the Devil, soul sold into bondage as the chattel of His lecheries, she has aught of her own and aught of hers to lay before Him; and thus shall the privilege of enslavement to the darker passions of a lighter being be her final reward.