Story: Dance

She danced for me. I had arrived into the middle of the crowded club floor a little while ago and had carefully walked my way backwards through the grayed gyrating bodies to an unpopulated corner. I stood there, listening to the banter of the singer and to his music, waiting for my computer to resolve the textures on the crowdful of strangers one by one. She had materialized just a few feet away from me, her sinuous body clad in the latest skin, the kind that glows and provides a softer focus than that attainable using the latest cosmetics in real life. I adjusted my view so that only she was visible to me and so that I could ignore the madding crowds. She had picked a lovely dance, sensuous but not erotic, and her body flowed with the music as if she were mostly liquid. Her dance periodically brought her right up to me and then moved her farther away. At the closest point in her dance, I could look right into her eyes, her head thrown back, so close that the merest incline of my head would allow me to kiss her. I fought the urge to do just that and instead let her long limbs envelope me before her dance would take her back away from me. Mesmerized, my eyes tracked her movements, following the curve of her lissome leg as it extended out of the slit in her soft black lace skirt. Her shoulders bare, descending to show just the start of the swell of her breasts. I watched the curls of her dark lustrous hair move in unison with her body, alternately hiding and exposing her collarbone. The contour of her shoulder leading to the long throat and then her face. I focused in yet closer on her and imagined my breath follow my focus caressing her as I studied her face. We were alone in my world, she and I, and the music. I studied her. And wordlessly, she danced for me.

Story: Until my days are done

This story is inspired by a beautiful sim (specifically by the incongruous part captured in the included photograph) by AM Radio. Here is the slurl if you are interested in exploring it.

It was just when I was beginning to anticipate the triumph of erasing my life that they first appeared, the five violinists. By then it had been several months into my coming back to the desolate island of my forefathers to die. I had dragged the small boat that brought me there from the beach to the only man-made structure on the island, a spare but functional cabin; the very structure where long ago the wailing of a newborn had heralded my arrival. This was the place I meant to erase, the whole island, and not just from memory but from existence. Each day I would get up and wander about systematically willing my exhausted body to focus its remaining energy to my final task. I made it snow incessantly, the white of the snow leaching all the color from the land, obliterating every feature, slowly fading the mass of the island blurring it into the white snowy background, as in an ancient and fading black and white photograph. The living things, mostly trees and grasses, were harder to deal with. I would tend to each tree and clump of grass in turn, using whatever magic remained in me of my forefathers, to bleed the color of life from them. I had worked feverishly each day for months in the bitter cold until the color was gone from the trees, leaving faded bony branches, more skeletons than trees, and the air was thick with the space between these trees. Each night I would try to sleep, my body racked in pain but caring nothing for it because I could taste success. And then they came, they came at night, the five violinists. I did not have to drag myself out of bed to know this. Even in my delirium, I could feel the terror every note from their violins lashed on my mind. I could hear the five strands of music, rivers of color and warmth, extending outwards from where they stood. I writhed and cursed all night consumed by the knowledge that every note from their violins breathed color back into the island. They were my nemesis, whether angels or demons I cared not, for they were there to thwart me in death as they did in life. At daybreak, when the terror had finally subsided I staggered out of the cabin and saw that the heat of their music had melted the snow where they had stood in the night, and in turn the bitter cold of the morning had frozen the melt into a glassy pond of ice. There, right under the glassy ice were their violins. I raged against the gods, wailing, throwing my fevered naked body against the ice in the pond wanting to smash the violins to pieces so that they could never be played again. At long last when there were no tears left in me, and the cold had turned despair into resolve, I turned to the new green leaves that had sprung up in the night on the bush growing on the boat nearby. I knelt, cradling the new leaves, turning my mind to their color, coaxing it out of them as I had done for so many months. I knew then, that the battle was joined, they will play their infernal music among these trees every night, and every day I would grow the space between these trees, at least until my days are done.

Story: Come Walk With Me (v1)

This vignette takes place in a real place (see included photograph). A beautiful build by AM Radio. Here is the slurl if you would like to visit.)

"Come walk with me" I said, and extended my hand to her as she arrived through the portal door. She looked at my outstretched hand, hesitating long enough that I thought she would refuse. We walked slowly, hand in hand, down the shiny tar road in the middle of the desert. The land around us was barren, the recent persistent lack of rain leading to cracks big enough that little furtive creatures darted in and out. Perhaps there was some moisture to be had deep inside the parched earth. Nothing grew though on either side of the road as far as the eye could see. No man made structures broke the vast expanse, other than the road itself, straight as an arrow. We walked down the middle of the road for a while, the painted yellow center lines between us, dividing, stretching with no end in time. I looked back for a moment, and perhaps because of the haze under the baleful sun, it looked to me like the yellow lines weren't there at the beginning of the road, that nothing had divided us back where we had started. We walked towards what seemed like a small tornado on the road, open big black beautiful umbrellas whirling about in the whooshing air. There was nothing else in the little dust storm, just the umbrellas. We each tried to catch the umbrellas several times but with no success. There was to be no respite from the sun. She laughed sadly, tugged on my hand, and we continued on down the road. In the outstretched silence we could see the ragged shadow of a great big tree in the distance. As we approached it, the tree itself seemed more like a spaceship floating above the road with only its shadow on the ground. We paused briefly at this wonder and then walked on under the floating tree to the car. An old car, beautifully maintained, its grill gleaming, its headlights bright, its engine growling steadily. An empty car at the end of the road. Perhaps it could take us back to the beginning, back to where we had started.

Story: It is what I need in here

She was my new neighbor, the one with the futuristic house in the deep sky, and I had been showing her my land for the past hour. The beach, the house on the hill, the waterfall I had built and the dungeon-cave that hid behind. She had been fascinated by the toys in the cave, particularly the especially perverse ones. We had laughingly experimented with them, hopping on and off some quickly, lingering for a few minutes on others. It is amazing how quickly the illusion of easy familiarity can build up on the charge of sexual energy. I held her hand and led her to the beach. She changed from her goth clothes to a gown whose blue shimmered in the moonlit night against my dark tuxedo. I nuzzled her face with my lips, caressing it with my breath, kissing it softly, feeling the quickening of her heartbeat against my chest as we slow danced on my beach just out of the reach of the periodic white spray generated by the crashing waves. "It is not this romance that I want", she whispered into my ear. I smiled and asked, "tell me your fantasy then"? "French maid", she whispered again, "to serve and to be used". I swayed with her silently for a while, bodies intertwined, engulfed in the closeness engendered by her revelation. "You know it is amazing to me how many strong and successful women I have met in here who wish to be slaves", I said eventually. She nodded quietly. "I spend my day making decisions for burly sweaty men who depend on me for their livelihood; every day I make all the decisions for the business I own. And then when I come in here at night, I need to lose myself in someone strong, to serve, to be told what to do, to be owned". She smiled as I gripped her hair gently, pulling on it to tilt her head back and kissed her throat. "It is what I need in here".

Story: Paired Violins

She would tell me things, lots of things. Beautiful things. How her parents had this great floor-to-ceiling library in their stone-built rambling castle of a house. How she spent much of her childhood curled up on the sofa near the big window with a view of the meadow reading books from all over the world. As I would caress her hand, cuddling her under the great big tree at the corner of my land she would tell me of the times she danced and skipped her way to school with her best friend on cobblestone streets in the early mornings. As I would press into her softly and kiss her iridescent hair she would tell me of her love of horses and the many summers she spent riding the gentle creatures on her family's estate. We would spend hours on my crescent shaped beach standing a couple of feet apart and facing each other playing our paired violins. She had become very fond of them from the moment I had first showed them to her. Their strands of intertwined synchronized music would appear magical to us as they wove disparate simple innocent individual strands of notes into complex stormy turbulent music. During high tide the waves would sweep up the beach and kiss our feet as we played and she would tear up and tell me how being able to play music with me filled the one void she had in her life. As I pressed her body against the wet sand my weight forcing her to yield, she would look into my eyes and tell me about how her best girlfriend had betrayed her trust and seduced her boyfriend while they were vacationing together way down south where the American continent's dagger pierces the frozen heart of the southern world. When I would fling her to the floor of my dungeon pinning her arms to the ground as I ripped her clothes off to take her for my pleasure, she would tell me of how she was afraid her older brother was going to rape her, that he had increasingly been brazen about it and of how she did not know how to tell her mother about her fears. As I would tie her hands and legs apart and slip the ring into her mouth to hold it open so that all her pleasures were available to me and before I would use her throat as my cock's embrace, she would tell me about how she had often seen her father violate his mistress, and of how she would hear her mother sobbing for hours afterwards. She told me things, lots of things. Dark things.