The War for Evermore

An Interlude


At the Ephermal City


San Francisco, July, 1915

This was an early Indian summer, heat from the interior pushing back the damp ocean cold that normally dominated the City’s summer weather. Instead of thick avalanches of fog rolling through the Golden Gate, spilling over Twin Peaks and, to the north, shrouding the tall hills of Marin, the Bay Area was baking under a brilliantly clear sky.

The heat reached far and wide, all the way to San Jose and the southland beyond, baking the Salinas Valley and, to the West of that, the Monterey coastline, Carmel, and the Big Sur. North of San Rafael the heat climbed past the one hundred degrees and the distant fields and orchards of Napa and Sonoma burned in the summer sun, the still air magnifying the warming’s effect.

Old timers sniffed the air, smelling the trace scent of fires from the Sierras to the distant east, declaring this would be a long spell of heat, and so it was turning out to be. Each day the crowds roaming the avenues of the post-Victorian wonderland that was the Pan-American Pacific International Exposition looked forward with increased excitement to the late nights, not only for the blazing illuminations that would fill the sky and light the surrounding hills, but the hoped for cooling breezes dropping temperatures into the more bearable 80s and 70s, making pleasant the night time at the P.P.I.E., the great celebration of the completion of the building of the canal in Panama.

The first day of heat took fairgoers by surprise, resulting in an inordinate number of heat emergencies, women and men succumbing to the heat overtaxing the Fair’s first aid infrastructure. But as the days passed the crowds adapted, dressing down, in some cases scandalously so, even to the libertine sensibilities the more bohemian citizens of San Francisco.

Also on that first day of Indian Summer the tall white ship slipped through the Golden Gate, light canvas sails set full to catch the soft air off the Pacific as she cruised with the inflowing tide. She’d come in near sunset, air to her stern, her lazily rippling white sails glowing gold in the light of the descending sun as she cruised past the flotilla of gray warships that stood station off the Fair’s shoreline, a reminder of a different, lost time in the history of this port.

The tall ship’s visit was an unheralded one, and so her arrival was observed with no small commotion by fairgoers, who gathered in growing numbers along the marina as rumors of the majestic vessel spread through the fair, watching as the towering ship tacked north, soon to drop anchor at the mouth of Richardson Bay, off Sausalito. That night, miles distant, light illuminated the tall ship’s silhouette, bathing her in warm ambers easily seen from the marina and the surrounding hills above the fair grounds.

As the passing days warmed so, too, did rumors that made their way across the water, tales of the ship’s complement and events associated with their stay in Sausalito, stories that served to feed the human animal’s need for a taste of the sensational. It was learned the vessel was called the Nile, a name evoking allusions of the mystic and the strange for fairgoers versed with the current fascination with ancient Egypt, and reports soon spread of large dinners and parties running into the early mornings, of exotic women and odd, even unsettling happenings that grew all the more fantastic with each telling.

No mistake: the ladies know how to make an entrance.

Sipping tea at his cafe table situated on the corner of a small terrace overlooking the Fair and the bay waters beyond, the quiet man took in the vision of the graceful white ship, rolling gently in the lazy bay swells, a distant part of him undecided as to whether or not what he felt was anticipation or anxiety.

Do I know these people any more?

Did I ever?

“Did they know you?”

He looked up, and she was there, tall, unmoving, subtle rainbows of color flowing over her dark skin, colors and skin unseen by all except one such as he.

“And here you are.”

He stood to offer her a seat.

Taller than he, she leaned in and down, moist lips caressing his cheek as she whispered her greeting.

“Indeed, sweet prince.” She smiled against his cheek, whispering in his ear. “Here I am.”

She settled and he returned to his seat as a waiter stepped over to their table, that worthy eying the dark skinned woman with an expression conveying both interest and disapproval.

She smiled, then ordered tea and cookies.

The quiet man chuckled as the waiter turned away to fetch her order.

“You know, the Victorians haven’t quite loosed their hold over this era’s moral sensibilities. Even in these modern times, and in this great Bohemian city, well-dressed, respectable women are escorted in public, particularly when visiting entertainments such as our Exposition.”

She eyed him, curious and amused.

“So I’m a trollop, am I?”

“It would appear.”

“Oh, dear. That would explain some of the looks I’ve been receiving.”

“Yes. Our young waiter seems particularly scandalized you should arrive here, without escort, and take a seat at an apparent stranger’s table.”

“Not the first time this has happened in the past day, I must confess.” She laughed and reached across the small table to briefly squeeze his hand. “But I am not yet at the Fair, and I have found my escort.”

He smiled with affection. “In truth, were you not who you are, I would be surprised you were let in here at all.”

“Ah, the skin color silliness.”


She sighed, releasing his hand as she eased back in her chair. “Not to worry. Where I go, that particular prejudice tends to fade from the consciousness of the people around me. While you may see me as I really am, the people about us see me as something else, an unusually tall, pale skinned woman of means. But that is all: they remain blind to pigmentation. The thought never comes to them.”

“Not really a solution.”

“No.” She turned away. “And that’s not my concern.” She looked down from their vantage, west and north, taking in the fairgrounds. “These people are as ephermal as this wonderful amusement they’ve constructed. If they fix this illness in the time left them, it won’t be by my agency.”

The quiet man nodded thoughtfully, sipped his tea as he looked out across the wide waters to where the Nile was moored. Up until now visits from the ship to the Fair had been made across the bay by ferry or by means of the Nile’s pinnace, carrying crew members and passengers taking turns visiting the fair.

Not today. The white ship had lifted anchor, and was slowly moving south from the mouth of Richardson Bay, making sail, the main and fore lower topsails run out to prove propulsion, with jib and brig sheets catching wind to aid in steering. Once out on the bay, the course sails for all three masts would be added for additional speed and better handling, but that would be all. The hot wind out of the northeast was light, and the navigator was going to take her time crossing the expanse, in part out of care for the anchored fleet of warships and the traffic on the bay, but also for the opportunity to put on a show: the Nile was flying all her flags, brilliant rainbows of color outlining the spiderwebs of rigging as she made to deftly wind her way through the small vessels and large ships of war that filled the the bay.

He nodded in the ship’s direction. “How was the passage?”

“Passage? Oh, no. I arrived separately, last night, by train from the south. At the station, I encountered a beautiful young man who graciously bought me dinner, took me dancing, and shared his room with me. We parted but an hour ago. I will be meeting him again, later.” She smiled to herself. “Such a beautiful young boy, so tender, so full of life. I think I will remember him.” Her voice drifted off and she turned to the young prince, expression vaguely amused.

“They’re only now beginning to realize I am here.”


She was quiet once more, head slowly turning, taking in the view from their hilltop vantage, looking first to her right to the rebuilt downtown of the City, and then over and across the bay at the shores and golden hills to the east. She scanned left, looking north, taking in the islands spotting the bay.

“This land, the islands of the bay, all part of a violent geography.”

To the right of Richardson Bay rose the green hills of Angel Island, and those of the Tiburon peninsula behind.

“Yes.” He sipped his tea, thoughtful. “nearly two minutes it went on, tearing the world apart.” He lowered his cup to its saucer, the movement, like his words, slow and deliberate. “But it was the fire that followed that did the old girl in, just as it had in the years following the Gold Rush.”

Eyes still moving, she lifted her gaze to take in the high hills of the coastal range, the ridge elevating up to the forested heights of Mt. Tamalpias. Lastly, she turned to the mouth of the bay, the world famous Golden Gate, eyes finally resting once more upon the Fairgrounds below and to the west, stretching three miles along the northern shore of the San Francisco peninsula.

The Pan-American Pacific International Exhibition.

The Ephermal City, the World’s Metropolis of Dreams.

“This is a good place for you, I think.”

“Yes.” He grinned, nodding. “I live on the fault line at the edge of the world, at the furthermost reaches of everything geographical, in a region of unheralded possibility.”


“Of course.” He eyed her. “But true, nonetheless. This is the newest, smartest place in the New World. There is an energy to this frontier metropolis, and to the sprawling region that surrounds it, a wildness that lives in the roots of the resurrected city, young and vital, literally rebuilt from the ashes. Those who live here in this time understand from vivid experience how everything can end in seconds, as it did nine years ago. That understanding informs them, dictates who they are.” His arm swept out, the gesture lazy, obvious, taking in the surrounding city and bay. “People here, like no other place, live in the moment; they are hungry, some so fiercely they near glow with the fire that drives them. At the same time, they seem blessed with a rough innocence, a raw chivalry birthed in romance, in a tragic pessimism from which they find constant renewal.”

He laughed, an amused chuckle.

“Listen to me. Romance. I sound like George Sterling.”

“George Sterling?”

He grinned. “An acquaintance. Wonderful, tragic man. A Romantic poet born a hundred years too late, I sometimes think, but regarded highly in this retrograde region of the world and, I must add, a wonderful person with whom to spend a day on a beach or in the country, or a night on the town.”

“A poet?”

“Yes. Not a Homer, of course. But quite good.”

He was quiet a time.

She waited.

“There is something unique here, a creative vigor that strengthens the spirit. I miss these things when I travel to the older, more worn parts of the world, especially now.” He sipped his tea, thoughtful. “This sphere is entering a new era, my Lady. I have seen signs during my trip to Europe. The inevitable has begun. This brief time of promise is going to give way to suffering and strife, and for all the great things they will accomplish, it will all come to naught.”

She turned to regard him.

“Ah, finally. There you are. I have missed you, my pessimistic young Prince.”

“Young, eh?” The quiet man smiled ruefully, ignoring the barb, and lifted his cup. “As I have missed you, my Lady.”


“That, too.” He sipped, eyeing her sideways. “There are too few secrets between us, after all.”

The waiter returned, setting tea before her. The man paid him.

The woman prepared her drink, taking in the surrounding people as she added honey. She nodded to the near corner, at a table of young Japanese men.

“Those men over there.”

He followed her gaze.


“The one to the right, in the white cotton jacket?” He nodded. “Does he not remind you of the Ronin?”

The young man eyed her askance before returning his attention to the table. “From a distance, perhaps.”

“Perhaps.” She smiled, touching his hand. “You loved him.”

“I have loved many.”

“Few, if any, as you did the Ronin.”

The young man closed his eyes, breathing softly. “Is there a point to this?”

“No.” Her expression was distant, thoughtful. “Yes. He does look like him.”

The woman sipped the tea, staring at her companion over the rim.

“Your father is here.”

“I know. He visited me yesterday while you were playing with your young man, and we roamed the grounds together, leaving only when they shut the Fair for the night.” He grimaced. “And then we hit the docks and availed ourselves of a drinking establishment.”

“Did you?”

He nodded, frowning at the memory. “We did.”

“Was anyone harmed?”

“Not permanently.”

“That does not sound like your father.”

He eyed her ruefully.

“You are being uncharitable.”

He sighed, sipping tea.

“Truth be told, his heart wasn’t in it.”

“Oh. That is unusual.”

“Yes. I fear the Fair has rendered him melancholy. The evanescent quality, I think, at least, in part. It all reminds him of the inevitable. And I think the Beaux Arts troubles him.”

The Elder looked down at the sprawling fairgrounds. “Yes. I’ve seen the brochures. The artistic thought that went into the Fair’s architectural design is remarkable. This Beaux Arts form, in particular, conjures thought of the Mount.” She smiled sadly, gazing absently at the palaces of the Fair. “This is all very grand. The humans dream great things and bring them to pass. They have done well during their run.”

“Indeed.” The young prince of a forgotten land gestured at the white ship as it tacked east, passing Angel Island. As he watched, she shifted course, sails moving and adjusting as her Captain turned the vessel into the light breeze, taking advantage of the outrushing tide to cut sharp into the bay, wind filling her sails, leaning and accelerating as she headed for the mouth of the Golden Gate.

“Consider our beautiful Nile, her current incarnation’s graceful lines informed by the great human shipbuilders of the past century: it is their art infused in her every form and function. You see her and you envision the majestic Clipper ships that brought new populations to this destination from the harbors of New York and Boston, making their runs around Cape Horn in 90 days or better.” He turned to her, sharing. “For long years after, even unto this day, their journeys were legend, and their names are remembered as one remembers heroic creatures of myth: The Glory of the Sea, Thermopylae, Sea Witchthe Flying Cloud …

He smiled and shrugged, taking a long breath, his expression distant. “Or so it was, once upon a time.” He blinked, rousing from a dream, remembering his companion. “Yes.” There was a resignation in his voice. “Yes. They … we … have done well in our run.”

The woman smiled. “Ships. A new preoccupation, then? Shipbuilding? Sailing?”

“I am, you’ll remember, the heir of an island kingdom.” She smiled again and he laughed. “An interest, is all; at least, in the here and now. One of many explored during our long parting, my lady.” He grinned at her expression. “You need not feign surprise. This is why you enjoy these separations, as they allow me opportunity to accumulate experience. You hunger for what I give you, the personal perspective the Book cannot offer.” He paused, but the smile did not fade, instead becoming familiar, loving. “I am the only one you cannot see, hidden from the eye of time.” He reached out across the table, hand folding over and squeezing hers. “I am honored you regard me with such trust as to allow me to hide these things until such time I choose to share them.” He squeezed her hand once more and released her.

“And speaking of time.” The quiet man removed his watch from its pocket, thumbing the lid open. The smile grew wider.

“I’ve a fresh surprise for you. His name is John Phillip Sousa, and he conducts the most amazing music.” He stood and moved around the table to stand by her, placing his hand on her chair. “We are off to the Festival Hall to hear a wonderful concert and, after, we will stroll the Gardens of the Palaces, until we come to see my discovery, a place where you will behold Beaux Arts at its most compelling and,

with it, a revelation.”

She eyed him, suggesting a heightening of curiosity.

“Something has occurred.”

There was no question or doubt in her words. She looked out over the waters at the Nile.

“Tell me.”

“Concert first, and no discussion beforehand. After, in appropriate time. There are things to see at this World’s Fair, things to experience. As we make our way through the Exposition and take in the sights, we shall talk and you shall … see.”

“Of course. We always talk.” Her expression was a cypher, but he sensed her suppressed frustration.

He chuckled and stood, coming round the table to offer his hand.

She tilted her head, regarding him, curiosity evident.

“A surprise, you say?”

“Yes. A good one, too.”

December 19, 2016 Posted by | Sienna Rosetti, Telling Stories | , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Sienna Rosetti 05


1.5 – Little Earthquakes

I’m on auto-pilot.

I’m being overwhelmed and lack the ability to do anything more than follow Sienna’s lead. The alcohol is still kicking my ass and the heat is smothering and I’m doing things more by instinct than with any sense of intent. Sienna is devouring me, kissing me, biting at me with her teeth, her tongue thrusting into my mouth, her rough caresses finding me where I am most vulnerable, the sensation like electricity flowing through my body, stealing my breath.

I’m trying to give back in kind, moving my hands over her body, seeking out her sensitive places while I kiss her hungry mouth, responding to her lips and tongue as they set a tempo for the blood rushing through my temples. But it’s a windstorm facing off against a hurricane. I try to pull my head away and she fights me with surprising, near-unnatural strength, pulling me back down to her demanding lips. Sienna dominates; I accept that lead the moment her mouth first meets mine, and she reminds me with every touch, kiss and nip. I learn what it is to be a deer in the headlights, mesmerized, staring without comprehension as the engine of my destruction bears down on me … except I am aware: I simply lack the will or energy to resist, even if I had it in me to do so.

I give in to her power and she accepts my surrender without mercy.

We do that strange dance of passion first-time lovers do as pent-up lust boils over into mindless action. We move crazily across the room, me so caught up in Sienna’s passion I’m barely aware of motion or direction. I fall over backwards, onto the bed. She’s rough, insistent, pushing me up onto the mattress, directing me with touch, gentle and rough, until I’m centered, underneath her, she rubbing her body against mine, caressing my skin with her hands and lips. I feel her mouth over my right nipple, flicking her tongue rapidly against the sensitive skin, sucking, finally biting so hard I cry out in pain … and all the while she strokes and fondles my sex. She repeats the action on my left nipple, driving me nuts and eliciting yet another small cry.

I can’t catch my breath. The music is back, loud in my ears, in the space between them, filling my senses, spurring my need, the unknown language of the song causing my blood to surge. Sienna rears up, pulling off her top in one fluid motion, then drops down to give my nipples more attention.  I’m naked, the towel having disappeared somewhere between the bathroom door and the mattress. I feel her hard, sandpapery nipples on my stomach, felt them scrape against my skin as she moves back up to my lips, pushing my arms high until they’re pinned over my head, hands almost touching the brass head rail.  She lingers on my mouth, not slacking in intensity as her lips crush and bruise mine. After a small time, she pulls back, breathing hard, whispering hoarsely over the song pounding in my temples, “My breasts. Nipples. Lick them. Chew. Suck them.”

Sienna pulls herself even higher, arching her back to lower a nipple to my mouth.  I go after her, determined to awaken a reaction that echoes mine to hers.  She groans, starts dry humping my gut, hands on my elbows and wrists, still pinning my arms as she rides me and I make love to first one nipple, than another.  One of her feet is resting on my sex, and she manipulates me with a stroking movement that further floods my amped-out senses.

I am transported, utterly lost in her and all the while waves of music roil my blood.

Without warning she rises and spins her body. Her swollen sex is in my face.  She is still wearing the thong; I can smell the rich scent of her, can see the inverted “V” of the muscles that had so excited me in the gym and am excited again by how she seems to strain against the fabric.  I see all of this in an instant, and I resolve to help her free, but before I can give action to thought, she moves again.

She scrambles to the foot of the bed, doing something to my ankle. The music is receding and I try to sit up, only to discover my arms won’t move. Dazed and overloaded from the sex and alcohol, it takes a moment to register what is happening to me, and by that time she has deftly finished with my right ankle and is now fastening a manacle on the left.  I try to fight, but I’m too late.  She has me locked down, arms and legs secured to the bed.

Right about there I shift gears and get scared. Real scared.

She sees my fear as she sits next to me on the bed, breathing hard and smiling as she runs her hands over my body, giving my sex a light squeeze. In spite of my freaked out state the damn thing is still hard.  Unlike the rest of me, it is too stupid to realize how fucked up things have become. “What-?” I start to say but her hand comes up to my mouth, covering firmly while she once again makes that “Shush” sign with her free hand.

She waits, making sure before removing her hand, rolling back on top of me as she does, teasing me with her mouth and hands until she works her way up to my face. In spite of my fear, I find myself responding to her touch. Out of nowhere I feel ashamed … I am ashamed, ashamed of my helplessness, of giving in to her. It comes on me sudden: I can’t think straight for the fear that takes hold of me; I feel weak, ineffectual. Humiliated. She kisses me again, hard now, forcing her tongue deep into my mouth. I make one last feeble attempt to resist, then gave up, succumbing. The fear subsides, replaced by need. After a time, she pulls up and slides to lounge at my side, one leg draped casually over mine, head propped up on one arm, looking me in the eyes, staring, her expression a cipher. She runs her hands over my body; fingertips thrilling my skin, then pinching and pulling at my nipples, now stroking my sex where it rests, hot and swollen against my gut. In the distance I hear the music again; soft, relaxed, a muted rhythm that stokes subconscious longing.

“You. Are. Uncomfortable.” The words are deliberate, thoughtful. Amused.“But no longer afraid. The fear has left you, replaced with …” Her voice drifts away as she searches my eyes. “Fascinating.” She smiles, her expression mischievous, her eyes weirdly luminescent in the fading gloom of the day. “No worries. Everything will be fine, Sam.” She runs her hand through my hair as she speaks, her touch gentle, a mild look of surprise shaping her features. “Fascinating, indeed. I did not think this would happen, but I truly believe I am starting to like you. I know the situation is such that it does not lend itself this conclusion, or you might think I’m having fun at your expense – and I am, though not in this – but I sincerely mean what I say. You are surprisingly easy to like, Sam Kitchen.”

Her hands trace the long scars that crisscross my torso, breath quickening, the change subtle, a counterpoint to the studied intent coloring her words. “These are quite beautiful, the marks of a man, of a warrior. You should be proud of them.” I stare up at her, not sure what to say. Sienna tilts her head, her voice now distant, speculative. “You must have suffered terribly.” She smiles. Leaning down, she brings her lips close, her breath warm on my skin. “You realize there are women in that gym that find you … hot … sexy?  Several think these…” She pulls back, fingers running over the mended tears and slices. “…are an absolute turn-on.” She holds my eyes. “I can’t deny I agree. Touching these … these …” Her voice drifts, and she shakes her head, takes a deep breath. “The scars on your legs and arms were what caught my attention the first time I saw you.” Her head bends and I feel her tongue slide along the length of one of the healed wounds. She chuckles softly, the sound faintly derisive. “I listen as these women talk about the different men who exercise in the gym. When your name comes up, this is the first thing they talk about, these beautiful scars.” Her head comes up, her face again close to mine, our noses nearly touching. “I think that would make you feel good about yourself, eh?”

She waits. I keep my mouth shut. She shrugs.

“Unfortunately, they also seem to think you are a complete jerk.” She pauses, expression bemused. “An interesting term, that. ‘Jerk.’ I think I like it.” She smiles, absently pulling back a stray lock of her hair. “I understand this conclusion – that you are a ‘jerk’ – ties in with what they sense is your attitude toward women, described as very chauvinistic, perhaps even misogynist. Now, for my part, I believe this may be an act. A facade. And how do I know that?” She leans in conspiratorially. “I’ve been … aware of you … for some time, Sam. Studied you. Gotten to know you. I know who you really are underneath that manly facade.”

I feel the small hairs rise on the back of my neck. This is scary talk. Crazy talk. And I’m chained to a bed, listening, and it’s about me. All about me. Holy fuck!

“No one gets too close to you. Not really. You keep the world at a distance.” She grins. “I wish you could see the expression on your face. You are scared shitless and doing everything you can to act like you’re not. Really, relax. After all, we could have done this differently. Less … politely.”

She leans back, words soft, tone meant to be reassuring “You have every right to be concerned, Sam. This, what happens here today, tonight, was always your fate. Always. There is no escape for you. There never can be. It is writ.”

I don’t know what to say to that, what to think.

“If it helps you as events … transpire … I give you my word that I sincerely have no intent of causing you lasting harm.” I remain silent, rolling my eyes up in the direction of my bound wrists. “At least, beyond what is necessary.” She scratches my chest and abdomen with her nails, abrading the skin.  “I said no lasting harm. Temporary discomfiture is another thing altogether, particularly the intense variety. As I said, you are going to have to trust me. Think of this as a leap of faith. I’ve made mine; now it is your turn to make yours.”

I close my eyes, not wanting to show the fear I know is evident there. ‘Leap of faith?’ What the fuck? Not that anything I do matters. She has me: I’m helpless. I feel her lips, first on one eyelid, than the next, then nothing.  

I finally look. 

Sienna stares at me, waiting.

“Ask,” she finally prompts, half-request, half-demand.

“Why?” I whisper. There really wasn’t any other question.

“Why?” She repeats softly, not mocking, manner sympathetic. “Have you ever considered how often the simplest questions require the most difficult answers?” She smiles ruefully and shakes her head. “Sam, there is not enough time for us this night, not for a long answer, so instead we will concentrate on addressing immediate concerns.” She goes silent, expression distant. “Full disclosure: there is danger here, danger as you’ve never imagined. One of many Destinies.Destiny. Yes, a Destiny. You and I have a Destiny. Together.” She’s drifting. “This Destiny begins here, tonight, with this ritual which I – we – will enact between us.” The words are whispered, distant. She strokes my skin. “Until then, pleasure must suffice.”

“This is ‘pleasure’?”

She laughs at my anger, back in the moment as if she never left, amused. 

“Yes. My pleasure, Sam Kitchen, the only pleasure that matters. Best you resign yourself to this dynamic. And to paraphrase the Bard whose words you trade in so lightly, m’thinks thou dost protest too much.” Her hand trails down my abdomen to lightly caress my rock-hard sex. “My pleasure will result in your pleasure – you can’t help yourself and we both know this. You’re male, after all. Being bound has done nothing to curtail your desire. You are excited, helpless before me, at my mercy. You want this, you find you need this, you long for me to get on, to take you. Do not attempt to deny; your body betrays. And I must confess I find myself pleased and excited to see you like this, to sense the ache that radiates from you like a palpable thing. I am … inspired.” She leans down, kisses me, lips’ touch tender as her tongue slips out to caress mine. 

Satisfied, Sienna pulls back and up, hair flowing over her right shoulder, ends lightly trailing along my skin as she moves. “I am to take much from you this night, but you will be no worse for the loss … no … you shall be greater for it.” 

I stare at her, uncomprehending. She laughs, then whispers again. 

“Too much information. I give you my word: when I have finished with you, I will – eventually – unlock those manacles and allow you all the freedom you desire, including that to have me, unbound, but now, in this moment, it pleases me to have you like this, helpless.” Her hands continue to caress my wet, naked skin. I growl. She grins. Her hand rests on my sex again, stroking softly with those maddening nails. I moan in spite of myself.

“That is one reason ‘why’.” Sienna leans forward to nibble at my ear. “But I do not think this the answer you seek.” She rises to stand above me, straddling my torso. The thong is gone. “With many destinies, many possibilities, come many answers.” She looks down at me, and I can hear the song once more, clear and distinct, unknowable words of longing washing over me. “You remember our agreement, Sam?” I nod, entranced, the rising music stealing my will. “You will do whatever I tell you. As long as I tell you. Until I say you are finished, and no sooner.” 

Her words are deliberate, measured. Sienna steps forward on the mattress until her palms rest lightly against the wall. She works first one foot, then the other between my bound arms and my neck, her naked heels resting lightly on my shoulders as she stands tip-toe, knees slightly bent. The object of desire that brought me to this impossible situation is now in clear view: an inverted triangle of neatly trimmed hair … all else smooth, naked … soft, glistening flesh … nether lips pursed, a narrow shadow between two long, faintly swollen mounds. 

All the while the song becomes more intense, more frenetic. 

“Right now, beautiful man, I intend for you to make love to me …” She smiles down from on high, eyes glowing – glowing!?! – soft sapphire. “… make love with lips, with tongue … just as you desired on that day I ensnared you.”

By now I’m overcome. I barely know who I am, and care less. Sienna stands above me, skin glistening with perspiration. She lowers her torso, sex descending to my face, to the longed-for kiss. The thin line parts, lips spread, folding back, revealing her …open … naked. Minute beads of meads of moisture kiss my flesh, faint but perceptible, leaving my face rich with the scent of her.  The core of her pleasure, swollen, tantalizing, peaks out from the hood, erect, eager. 

The music flows over me as her aroma fills my breath.

A full, heavy bead slips free of her, striking me, the bubble of moisture exploding outward. Another. More. The thick drops burn my skin with her heat. And the song amplifies everything, I can barely breathe for my excitement. Bonds that hold me are forgotten. I am transfixed: all I want is to taste of her, run my tongue over vulnerable skin, slip inside her, wrap my lips around her, please her.

She stops short, sensing me, suspended just outside the reach of my extended tongue.  Lines of muscles reveal themselves as she strains, unmoving. I crane my neck, arch and contort my back in a vain attempt to somehow levitate myself up and into the waiting embrace of those dripping lips.  But Sienna anticipates, raising and lowering herself in response to my every effort. Drop after drop of her moisture is striking my skin, rich scent of her sex mingled with some unrecognizable perfume, burning me, intoxicating me, driving me to a frenzy of need.

Now she moves with deliberation, not lowering herself, instead gyrating her pelvis ever-so-slightly, a back and forth motion that is torture to watch. The muscles of her bronzed legs ripple as she circles, balanced on the balls of her feet, skin glowing from perspiration. There is no sense of her tiring: she is locked in a pattern, an undulating dance. Sienna is lost in herself, barely aware of me as anything more than … what?  The thought brings me up short, and for a fleeting moment I am aware of myself and I start to struggle.

The song floods my senses, a character of abandon inhabiting the unknown lyrics that sing to me, overwhelming me with a near-physical embrace and all thought deserts me.

I am hers.

Sienna stops. The song dies and the world goes quiet, the universe absent of everything but the oppressive heat. Slowly, ever so slowly, she descends, the song returning, now a soft murmur of melody in the distance.

The tip of my straining tongue makes contact.

She freezes. There is a gasp and the song loses structure, becoming confused, discordant, but that only hides what comes next and Sienna breathes, deep and long, and the song explodes, filling the world with sound. She remains motionless, the tip of her sex barely touching the rough edge of my tongue, savoring the sensation of tenuous contact.  Ever so slowly she begins to move again, gyrating hips in tight, minute circles, her pleasure centered on my tongue’s tip. She rounds one way, stops, reverses direction, rounding back. My tongue burns from holding in place, but I remain motionless while Sienna takes her pleasure of me.

The song rolls on, and Sienna runs her sex up and down against my tongue. Unable to maintain my extension, I relax, retract, but she follows, keeping contact. I look up.  Eyes tightly shut, she is biting her lower lip, features screwed up in intense concentration.  Her hands wrap around the top bar of the brass head rail, arms rigid, muscles and tendons stand out like steel cables. Her motion is now quicker, more insistent as she approaches climax. I move my tongue, keeping rhythm with her. The tempo accelerates, now jagged, jerky. Breath comes in rapid gulps and gasps, a soft moaning lives deep in her throat, a telltale herald of release approaching. A quiet half-groan, deep, gurgling, and I feel her wash over my face, her movement becoming spasmodic.

She’s only started. My hair is grabbed, my head held close as she grind her pelvis into my face, riding me as she fights to sustain the intensity of orgasm.  I run my tongue in and out of her, working her drenched sex with lips and teeth, and all the while she wildly rocks back and forth.

She stops, expression desperate, frozen, a gasp slipping from her, and I wrap my lips around her core, sucking gently while rubbing and flicking my tongue against the tip of her.  Now she really screams, grabbing my hair even tighter as she struggles to somehow shove my face deep into her sex, to swallow me.

She looks down, eyes open, glowing amber-red, flecks of gold seen in spinning orbit of her pupils. Her lips move, but there is no meaning to be found from the sounds she makes. And all the while the unearthly music that enthralls me plays on, stoking my desire, spurring my efforts to satisfy this woman.

Sienna releases my hair and leans forward against the head rail, forehead on her hands where they grip the brass frame, breathing ragged sobs. She raises herself just a bit above me and slowly, almost drunkenly, readjusts, moving one leg, than the other, now easing herself down until she lay atop me again. She kisses me, tenderly, thoroughly, licking at her spent juices as she presses her mouth to mine.

I respond in spite of my exhaustion, feeling a compulsion to give myself to her. I don’t know the origins of this need. I don’t care. I am oblivious to time, to my helplessness.  All I can feel, all I can respond to is the insatiable need to please her.

She pulls back, looks at me, her eyes glowing even brighter than before. Am I really seeing this?  She just stares, the weird light, now blue, pulsing softly. This is Sienna … but it is not Sienna … I sense her seeing me with a stranger’s eyes, for the first time – wondering at me. Her hand moves to rest on my breast. I gasp, thrilled by the contact. I feel … something … a quickening, an adrenaline-fed excitement surging though me.

Something important is occurring.

I realize she is changing me, altering me. I know this. I can sense this.

I don’t care.

I hear her whisper.

“So be it.” 

Eyes dim and she lowers herself, kissing me again.  She starts softly, gradually becoming more energetic, forcing herself on me, rubbing her body against mine as she works my lips, the action purposeful, intent.  She arches her stomach, contracting her abdominal muscles, rotating and tucking her pelvis, allowing her moist sex to rest on mine.  Pulling back from my mouth, she begins rocking, sliding back and forth against my hardness.  The motion accelerates and I feel those incredible inner muscles kneading my flesh.  The sensation of her humping me there is second only to the mental image of those lips sliding against my tender skin. My breath is ragged and I try with what little freedom I have to push and move with her. Things are happening quickly, too quickly. The explosion is coming and I’m about release when, abruptly, she stops, cold.

She holds her body away from me, nose inches from mine, staring at me, eyes ablaze with sapphire radiance. I didn’t care. I’m going nuts. I want to release. I need to come! I arch my back, thrash my body, but to no avail.  I beg, plead; nothing moves her.  She won’t touch me, won’t give me what I desperately crave.  Instead, she stares, expressionless, her eyes glowing blue embers, watching as I struggle within the confines of my restraints.

Time passes. I calm, but only outwardly. Inside I seethe. Anger burns with frustrated longing, nestling in the core of me.  Not that what I feel matters.  The truth is simple, obvious: she is showing me exactly who has power here.

The music quiets, the singer’s voice fading until no trace remains.

Sienna lowers herself, beautiful mouth to my ear. “Shall I free you?” She whispers, teasing, a casual contempt informing her words as lips graze the edge of my ear, thrilling me, stealing my breath, .

“Yes!” I somehow growl through clenched teeth, failing to keep the distress out of my voice. “Let me go!”

“And if I let you go, will you leave?  Or will you try to have me, to take me? Punish me? After all, you are a man, Sam.” There is a distaste to her words, particularly when she says ‘man’. “A large and powerful man.” The words are distant, hypnotic. “You are much larger than I. And I, I am only a woman.” There, again, taunting, dismissive. “You could easily overpower and have your way with me; if such were your desire. And when desire rules a man …” once more, that same disparaging inflection “… what is to stop him from answering his truer, baser instincts?” I feel fingertips scraping my sex.

She pulls back and stares, gauging, taking my measure. I know I fail, fall far short of whatever standard she sets. I don’t know how I know this; like so many things here, now, I simply do. And all the while the glow remains, dimly radiating from her eyes, only now like something reflected off ice.

I am floundering: something dark and forbidden is waking within me. I want her, desperately, want to have her, want to pay her back for this denial. To take her, throw her down, punish her for playing with me, show her just how big and strong I can be. I will tie her down and fuck her hard, make her beg. That’s exactly what she deserves, and exactly what I will give her.

Yeah. Sure I will.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, releasing slow and long.  The real me – the real Sam Kitchen – regains control; control I’m just realizing was lost. And as I master myself, disgust kicks in, disgust at the raging, angry lust that possesses me. I am ashamed. I know I can never do such a thing; deep, very deep down … where things count … this isn’t who I am. Never could be. I want to believe this.

I’m deluding myself.

There is no mercy in such a fantasy. Sienna sees to that. She makes me see my lie. The darkness remains, goading me, challenging my grip on who I am, attempting to assert dominance … I am feeding something, I realize, something else, wholly separate from me – something alive, newly awakened, lurking at the edges of my consciousness … Distant … Malicious.

Sienna intends this, intends for me to lose control. She is now connected to me in a manner that has no analogue in my experience, using that connection to manipulate me, my emotions, to wake this alien thing inside me. I know this as fact, with absolute surety. My knowing amuses her. I see the reaction on her face, in her body language. I am naked, exposed. There is nothing about me she doesn’t know.

She revels in my misery.

I hate her.

“You have my word.” I am deflated, beaten. “I will do nothing, and I will leave.”  I look to her as I speak, seeing disappointment shape her expression. It is hard for me to hold her gaze, and I look away, feeling small.  My erection, like my anger, fades. I am become impotent and meaningless. 

I want to get the hell out of this place.

“Hmm,” she muses under her breath, manner preoccupied. There is a hint of sadness from earlier, at lunch. “I think I believe you.” The disappointment that fills me is obvious. I’ve done something wrong. She climbs off of me and stands at the head of the bed. “I think I can let you go and that would be the end of things.”  Her hand reaches for my wrists. My heart sinks.  She is going to release me; I will be free of this impossible situation. I can go home.

I’m a liar.

I don’t want to go. Don’t want to lose her. I am amazed and dismayed at how complete that feeling is, at how fully I have given over.  She’s snared me, mastered me, and I have no idea how. I am hers. I feel excited, exhilarated … and frightened. Physical restraints are window dressing in this new reality, an unexpected reality, far beyond some weird dominance game. I don’t know where this is headed, have no idea where Sienna is taking us. I only know it is the two of us: wherever we be headed, we go together. That is the only truth, the only reality, and if I walk out her door, all will be lost to me.

Sienna will be lost to me.

Despair is all I know.

She stops, her fingers resting lightly on my wrists and the manacles that secure me. The odd, preoccupied expression flickers once more across her features. She looks hesitant, uneasy. She speaks, softly, voice taking on a quiet resolve.

“Sam, would you like to make love to me?” The sound of her words are a bright song of light. Before I can think to stop myself I smile, the action eager, involuntary. She sees and laughs, but the laughter is distant, unsettled in quality. “You do.” She speaks with grim finality. In the silence that follows I again sense the unsaid occurring here, some undercurrent that parallels our interaction, but by now I am too caught up to consider anything might be amiss. “Good.” She smiles, and her hands came away from my restraints. “But I want to hear those words from you, Sam. 

“Do you want to make love to me?”

“You know I do.” I snap angrily, all the while feeling exposed and vulnerable as never before. I’m forfeiting something, something primal and important. I know this.

“Then you must give over. You must surrender yourself to me. You must tell me you are mine. Say it, Sam.” Her expression is a cipher, her voice uncompromising. 

I cannot escape this.

I pause, licking my lips. I’m on a precipice now, about to leap into … into what? This whole exchange is a game, only her manner makes certain the stakes are much higher than having her or sating my pleasure. I really am about to give up something – I know it! – something huge.

I don’t care.

“Yes.” The word is underscored by a subvocal growl. “I am yours.”

“I am yours who?”

Why am I giving in to this?

“I am yours, Sienna.”

“Then, it is done. I shall give as you desire.” She starts to climb on the bed. I shake my chains, wanting out.  I’ve done as she asked, spoken my truth. “Uh, uh, Sam.” She smiles, voice teasing. “My house, my rules. You said you wanted to make love to me. Just as I want to make love to you. Yes. But I’m not ready to let you loose; in time, but not just yet.”

And right there I finally do lose it.

I start yelling and cursing, straining and jerking at the chains as I do.  She puts her hand over my mouth: her grip is strong and sure; I cannot get free of her no matter how I try to twist and turn. Eventually I settle down. She frees my lips. “Let me go.” I’m pleading again, my voice disgusting to my ears. “I’ve … I didn’t mean it.” I’m freaked.  I have no say over the situation. Worse, something has happened to me – is happening to me. I can’t be sure of myself any longer. Tears well in my eyes. This isn’t play anymore, we aren’t speculating; I am going somewhere I don’t want to go. I’m scared shitless.

The song returns.

She looks at me an endless moment, head tilted to one side, expression taking on that predatory aspect. 

“No. Sam. I don’t think so. It’s too late to go back.”


“You have given yourself over to me. I have accepted the gift of your surrender. The agreement is finished, final.

“There is no going back. Ever.”

Her hand strays to my freshly swollen shaft, fingernails running from base to tip. I moan. “You want to make love to me, Sam. You said so with your voice. You continue to say so with your body, with your sex.” The song builds in tempo and strength. Control eludes me. “You know it in your mind, in your soul. I want you to make love to me. I want y-…,” she pauses, her expression searching, “no … no, I intend to make love with you. This is our inevitable destiny, my beautiful man, our inescapable destiny.”

Okay. There is no longer any doubt: the woman is certifiable.

Of course, given what’s passing between us, so am I.

And the song rolls on …

Sienna kisses me. I resist, but fail … I have nothing left in me to fight the desire to have …no,  to be had … by her. In spite of fear, my anger, I want this woman as I have wanted no other woman. Hunger wakens … I give in, I respond, surrender myself to her strength.

I lose myself in her lips.

She breaks contact and slides down my sweat-soaked body, first teasing, then biting at my nipples until I howl.  She continues, pinching a nipple while tonguing my belly button. With her free hand she plays with my sex.

She stops.

I crane my neck, chin on chest, stare down the length of my body. Sienna stares back. Eyes glow cold sapphire: the space between us is bathed with luminance. What the hell is she? The thought is detached, random. She hovers over my fresh erection, and the color shifts, now amber. She grins, expression wicked, and lowers her head, long – long! – tongue snakes out her mouth. She touches the base of my sex. Slowly, deliberately, she runs the tip up my length, stopping at the head to flick around the sensitive glans, then eases back to repeat the movement precisely, softly, slowly pulsing eyes never leaving mine.

More of the tongue makes contact, flattening as she laps my erection. She quickens the pace. Every nerve in my body is alive, the sensation breathtaking. She accelerates the rhythm; the tempo of the ever-present song carries me along.

She stops, mouth poised over the tip, lips slightly parted, eyes glowing red slits that bath the world in blood.  She smiles, runs her tongue around the head before slowly lowering her lips, applying light suction, moving up-and-down, taking a little more in her mouth each time she descends. Neck straining, I keep my head up, watching, hypnotized. The sensations overwhelm, carrying me along. Sienna works at my sex, her actions focused, deliberate, one hand wrapped around the base, lightly stroking in sync with her mouth, her free hand roaming, first to the soft, sensitive area between my legs, then up over my abdomen to my nipples where she lingers a moment, fingernails pinching before moving back down to my groin.  Her head moves steadily up and down while the hand wrapped around my lower half squeezes and strokes in time with the movement of her lips. My head falls back. I’m coming – I feel it, closing in, closer and closer and I’m almost there…

And she stops.

My head pops up, my eyes wide and wild. She grins at me, eyes glowing bright. “Oh, no, Sam, you are not going to get this all at once, beautiful man. We are going to take our time, patiently work for this, you and I.” Sienna smiles again, and that tongue comes out, and she starts licking the full length of me like some demented schoolgirl going after an all-day sucker.  She tries to shove her tongue into the hole in its head, getting hardly anywhere, but creating an instant, overwhelming spasm, near-orgasmic, blasting through me into my spine and up to my brain, making my small hairs stand tall. And then she was at me again, sucking and stroking and licking.  And I was almost going to come. And she stops. Waits. And starts again.

I’m going berserk.

The music is right there with me, urging insanity.

She stops for the fifth or sixth time, looks up. “Let’s try something else.” She clambers up to me, kissing me full, lingering on my lips. Rising up, she grabs a pillow, and for an instant I know fear as she holds it over my head, but only for an instant, because she lifts my shoulders and doubles it up under me, so that I now have a semi-comfortable, supported view of my body.  Sienna then clambered back down to my sex, reversing her position, beautiful bottom and damp lips in my face.

She rears up, turning to look over her shoulder and down at me. The view is spectacular. “I thought you might enjoy this.  I’m sure you can think of something to do while I’m busy.” She settles her lips over my mouth and I began to make love to her again.  She remained suspended there, using my sex as a handle to brace herself while I work her with my tongue.  She stiffens. For an eternal moment she barely moves, inner thighs trembling.

She leans forward, head dips down and I gasp.

Sienna swallows me to the base.

Once more the music explodes and my torso arcs upward, the sudden movement involuntarily, helpless.

This is a whole new world of sensation.  The feeling of my thickness squeezed tight down Sienna’s throat is indescribable.  The combination of her hands, tongue and mouth working me is already shutting down whole regions of my consciousness; when she adds the intermittent thrust down her throat it’s enough to make me levitate.  The music crescendos; I lose all motor control, going limp, surrendering … and she knows, in that connection that now lives between us, knows and accepts my submission … and she rides my face with her sex, movement more deliberate, working me, and the feeling grows somewhere in my groin, becoming larger, more urgent, centering at the base of my manhood …

… and she stops.

I’m startled, maybe in shock, and then, so help me, I start to cry again. This is too much. I need to come – I have to come! I exist in a place where release is now physical need, and that need is cruelly, sadistically being denied. 

I want to die. 

I start bucking and yelling and she climbs off me and down to the foot of the bed, but only for a moment and she turns and sits on my legs, patient, waiting. I quiet. She climbs back up to me, holds my face, and murmurs softly in my ear, comforting, quiet, words barely intelligible, communicated more in tone than meaning. The song continues, underscoring her words, the singer now calming.

Sienna pulls back, face now inches from mine, looks at me, hand reaching behind me, grabbing my hair, holding me in place, eyes locked on hers.

“You are mine. Say it.”

“I am yours.”

“Unto the end.”

“I am yours to the end.”

“Of course you are.” She smiles, expression smug and loving all at once. “You have my word.”

And then I feel the sensation, and it is better … greater … than any possible expectation. Slowly, steadily, Sienna slides down, engulfing my engorged sex with the impossible fire of her.  


Sienna whispers the word, though whether to reassure me or remind herself, I cannot tell, so overwhelmed am I by the shocking heat of her, wrapped so snugly around me, holding me in place.  She finally moves, rocking softly, slow and easy, the most minimal of movement between us. The heat of her burns at me, energy pulsing, radiating outward, sending fresh surges of electricity through my nerve endings. She accelerates movement and I instinctively bring my legs up to brace us. It takes a moment to realize my ankles are no longer locked down and the thought fades as the song flows over me, making me blind to anything but the incredible creature I’ve given myself to.

Sienna’s sex tightens on me, squeezing and releasing, kneading my flesh with every thrust.  The movement builds, stronger, larger, and she pulls herself up, hands planted on either side of my chest as her pelvis pushes down on me in rhythmic motion. And then she comes, sudden, from nowhere, crying out softly, triumphant, half-collapsing but catching herself, choosing to ride me upright as she comes again, and then again, her muscles clamping down and releasing all the while as she slides along my engorged sex. Her hands are on my chest now, her fingers claws digging into my skin as she crouches low over me, stiff nipples rubbing my skin while her beautiful tush rages up and down on me like a crazed pile-driver.  She comes once more, hard, her forehead dropping down into the nape of my neck and the world explodes … I transcend consciousness, blowing up amid a paroxysm of sensation. She catches it, feels it as it happens. Her head came up, and she goes for my mouth as I release. I can feel the liquid heat wash through us as I release into her. She milks the shaft with her muscles, working every drop from me. Soon it flows from her as a warm, thick wetness spilling out and between my legs, dripping off me onto the sheets, mingling with her wet.

We don’t stop, instead settling down, our movement steady, constant, our lips still touching, gently melding for the eternity to come.


December 19, 2016 Posted by | Sienna Rosetti, Telling Stories | , , , , , | Leave a comment


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