The War for Evermore

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

Sienna Rosetti 02

“Enough about me; what’s your story, Sam?”

“Not much to tell, actually.”

“Really? I’d beg to differ. For example: those scars you wear are unusual.” She nodded at my exposed arms. “I’ve seen the ones on your legs and shoulders, as well.” She tilted her head, expression curious. “I understand they cover your entire body. Is that true?”



1.2 – Strangeness and Charm

 Bladder drained, hands and face washed, I exited the bathroom, feeling refreshed. Well, kind of refreshed. Sorta kinda. It’s debatable just how refreshed one can be when it’s over 90 in the shade, you’re sweating like a pig on a spit and your grimy clothes are plastered to your body, rubbing up against your epidermis like rough sandpaper. Still, inside the house, where some of the morning air yet lingered, the atmosphere was perceptibly cooler than the outdoors.

‘This is wrong.’

Random thought. Out of nowhere.

No. Not wrong. Not right. I had no sense of where the feeling came from. One moment I was set to join Sienna on the back porch and next … everything slewed and the house interior shifted in my sight. I froze, catching my breath, scanning my surroundings, searching the shadows for movement. The small hairs on the back of my neck were getting spiky: something was going on, something just outside the range of my vision. I turned quickly, looking about, not sure what had me spooked. The sensation – and that’s what it was, a sensation – was vaguely familiar, a shade of forgotten memory, lingering just outside resolution … and I couldn’t place it, couldn’t connect, even though I knew, I really knew.

The problem was I didn’t know what it was I knew.

Or why.

I looked down the hall, feeling dizzy. The kitchen seemed further away than the last time I’d been here. A lot further. Sure, the property was huge; like I said, it took up a couple of normal lots. But now the building seemed even bigger on the inside than on the outside, like there was two or three times as much space stuffed into what should be there. The hall looked endless. I closed my eyes a moment, trying to shrug off the sensation.

Probably some trick of perspective or something.

I took a step toward the kitchen.

Someone whispered my name!

I stopped, pivoting, eyes wide, panicked.

What the hell?

There was no one there. I eased out of a fighter’s crouch, straightening. Slowing my breathing, I closed my eyes and listened. The inner air washed over me, oddly clear, even cool, the smell of freshly-worked wood and other, construction related odors mingling with the scent of cut grass. After a time I sensed what I thought to be a soft humming, distant, faint. I could barely detect the sound. I concentrated and gradually the humming grew in volume, changing, becoming an identifiable voice, at least in the sense I could recognize the rhythm and meter of verse. The words were lost to me, though, spoke – no, sung! – in an oddly musical language I could not recognize, feminine in quality, bright and alive. In spite of myself, a smile lifted the corners of my mouth, relaxing me, leaving feeling more at ease as any time I could remember.

The suspended moment of perception ended, the rhythm and music seeming to fade, but not quite go away.

And then it … she … spoke to me, the sound of the voice sad and warm.

“Welcome home, sweet Meadow.”

My eyes popped open, darting about, seeking out the speaker.

There was no one there.

“Who…?” The word was whispered. I looked to the shadows, half-expecting someone to emerge.


I was beginning to think I’d imagined things.

“Hello, Kitchen.” The soft voice was right before me, its source invisible to my eyes. “I’ve missed you.”

I stepped back, tripping over a pile of wood and falling. I landed heavily, the clattering wood making a lot of noise.

Sienna called out. “Are you alright?”

“Fine!” I yelled back too loudly, scrambling to my feet. “Be right there!”

I spun about, trying to locate the source of the voice. What just happened? I hesitated, thinking to try and listen for the music again, but I knew I couldn’t stay here forever. Sienna was waiting for me and I didn’t need her thinking I was snooping around. I turned, conscious the hallway seemed shorter again.

Passing through the kitchen I saw my original assessment was correct: this area was in better shape than the rest of the house, refurbished to near-completion; everything looked new and functional. Made sense. If you were going to live in a place while fixing it up – at least, that’s what I assumed Sienna was doing – the two most important rooms to get up and running were the bathroom and kitchen.

Uneasily looking back over my shoulder at the now-dim interior, I brushed past the huge butcher’s block and stepped into the bright hot that was the outside. Sienna was sitting at a table to my left, under an ancient-looking awning. For the briefest instant I thought to mention the voice I’d heard, but quickly let go of that idea, thinking how crazy I’d sound.

“What happened? Did you hurt yourself?”

“No.” I blinked, still preoccupied with what happened only moments before. “No. I got clumsy and tripped, is all. Nothing bruised or broken.”

Sienna nodded and gestured to the seat across from her.


I settled in to the welcome vision of a bowl of tossed green salad and a pitcher of what looked to be lemonade.  On the plate in front of me was an open sandwich of roast beef and Jack cheese, with lettuce and tomatoes on the side and condiments in easy reach.

My hostess served up the salad, loaded with hot weather veggies: cucumbers, grape tomatoes, lettuce and a sprinkling of scallions.  “The dressing’s bottled Italian.”  Sienna sounded apologetic.  “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Um, no, um, that’s okay.  Uh … I really like … bottled … Italian.”

Yup … real cultured, witty repartee, but she seemed pleased.


Small talk exhausted, we went silent except for the sounds of plastic utensils scraping plates and the refreshing crunch of fresh vegetables as we chewed. I avoided opportunities to look directly at her, remembering how I got here in the first place, spending an inordinate amount of time staring out over the yard.

Behind and to the left of Sienna, at the end of a tall, ivy-covered fence, was a two-story structure I assumed served as the garage and tool shed. I figured the upper story was a servant’s quarters or in-law apartment at some time in the past. The building looked deserted, the upstairs windows boarded up. Scanning right, I took in the wide lawn, with a massive oak in the center, providing shade. Along the rear fence stood a row of pine trees, providing more shade, as were the Japanese maples standing in the opposite corner, above a still pond half-filled with brackish water.  There was lawn furniture, and the broken frame of a two-seater swing stood beneath the oak. The yard was covered in places with old leaves, broken branches and the inevitable detritus of neglect.

I turned, reaching for the lemonade and froze. Sienna was staring at me. No. Not at me. She was staring through me, checked out, mind elsewhere, features sad, lonely even. She blinked, caught my eye and the expression disappeared, replaced by that cool facade she wore so well. She took a bite of her sandwich, chewing and then washing things down with lemonade, eyes wandering the back yard. I looked away, occupying myself with finishing off my own sandwich. It tasted good: tangy sourdough, cold cuts and vegetables.

I couldn’t stand the silence.

I reached out to tap the side of the house. “If you don’t mind my asking, is this one of your jobs?” I got a puzzled expression in response. “I noticed on the card you gave me. You describe yourself as a restoration architect.  I figured this is one of your jobs or contracts or whatever you call it, which got me curious ‘cause I didn’t think architects worked the construction end of things.”

She smiled a real smile. Whoa. So that’s what that’s like. “Oh, I see.”  She took a sip of lemonade, her expression thoughtful. “Yes, architects work construction while they learn their craft and even later in their careers have some hands on involvement on their jobs, though perhaps not to the extent I have here. I guess it would be up to the individual, really. As for you question, no, this is not one of my clients’ jobs. This is my home. I grew up here. I inherited the house from my – my grandparents – a long time ago. It’s been deserted since their deaths.” She sighed. “I decided I wanted to live here again.” Her voice was different: the hard edge I’d grown accustomed to gone.

“Grew up here?” I was genuinely interested, looking around and imagining what the yard once looked like. “Must have been some childhood.”

“No.” She went chill.  “Not much of a childhood at all.” She turned her attention back to her sandwich, took a bite and chewed, looking off into the yard, her expression sphinx-like.


Wanting to get out of there before I did anything more to sour the mood, I focused on my sandwich, finishing the last bit in a couple of bites. I was set to excuse myself and return to the front when she spoke again.

“Please don’t misunderstand.” Her voice was hushed, thoughtful. “My grandparents loved me, spoiled me even. This was a romantic place to grow up, with all the different rooms, and the large yard filled with all manner of trees and flowers …” She sighed. “… and the library.” She gestured at the run-down vegetation and remains of lawn furniture. “The parties during the summer … the neighborhood children would come to play croquet and lawn tag and all manner of games.” She sighed again, lost in another place. “They were the best times, my childhood here. Thanksgiving, the Christmas holidays … Halloween … this house was always the best place to be.”  Her voice drifted off.

“I’m sorry.”

She blinked a couple of times and looked at me, expression direct. “Not to worry. It was a long time ago. Another era. Like all things: long gone. Nothing of importance to anyone, anymore.” She paused, expression focused. “Once I made up my mind to return I got to work ripping out the interior, getting rid of the rotted wood and plaster while modernizing the electric, gas, and plumbing.  The place was in bad shape. The `89 quake accelerated the aging of the structure.” She reached out, touching the outside wall with her fingertips, the expression familiar, intimate. “With winter approaching I’m concentrating on the interior and the roof. Come spring I’ll finish the renovation of the façade. By next summer the place will look as it did a hundred years ago.”

She paused, sipping again from her glass, tilting up as she finished the lemonade to get at the ice.  She looked at me, absently crunching the small cubes between her teeth. “Enough about me; what’s your story, Sam?”

“Not much to tell, actually.”

“Really? I’d beg to differ. For example: those scars you wear are unusual.” She nodded at my exposed arms. “I’ve seen the ones on your legs and shoulders, as well.” She tilted her head, expression curious. “I understand they cover your entire body. Is that true?”

I nodded, chewing, eyes unfocused.

Wear, huh? 

The scars were a reminder of a very bad day in my life; I’d never thought of them as being ‘worn’ so much as being left with them.

She prodded.

“So what happened?”

“I don’t know.”

She leaned back, studying me. “You don’t know?” Her expression was curious. “How is that possible? I’ve been told you look like someone who took a stroll through a knife factory during a hurricane. I think I’d remember something like that.”

I smiled unhappily. This was not a place I liked to visit.

“I don’t remember.” Her eyes narrowed. “No, really.” My tone was resigned; she wasn’t going to let up until I explained myself. “Amnesia. Doctors say trauma erased my memory.”


“Cross my heart. When I woke at Walter Reed, six months were gone and I didn’t have a clue where. The last thing I remember was the ambush.”

“Walter Reed? That’s a military hospital.” I nodded. “You were in the Army.”

I grinned, but there was no humor in the expression. “Naw. Marines, ma’am. Semper Fi.”

“Oh.” Her expression was vague, not catching – or ignoring – the distaste in my voice. “So you say an ambush? Where were you? Iraq? What were you doing?”

I sipped from my glass. “It was a small operation: one of our embassies got overrun…”

“You were in Iran? You couldn’t have been old enough.”

“This was somewhere else, two decades after Tehran, in Africa, a terrorist thing from what we were told going in. The troop carrier I was assigned to was the closest asset, so they ordered us in. Without backup.”

“That’s bad?”

I nodded. “There was a full Task Force with another troop carrier one day further out, but the brass wouldn’t wait.” I sipped from my lemonade. “You mentioned Tehran. You know that thing they talk about preparing for the last battle? That’s what we were doing, remembering Tehran and planning for another scenario just like it.

“That made for a huge mistake because it turned out the other guys prepared for us to come in expecting Tehran.”

“An ambush?”

“Yeah. Given the Embassy was being overrun within our strike range, the thought was to get in quick, not giving the captors time to either fortify their position or disappear into the countryside with our people. We were off within an hour, three platoons in choppers, escorted by jump jets. We inserted smooth, on target, freeing the captives within minutes of landing. Textbook. It was when we tried to evac everything went to hell. Lost half our guys, all our choppers and most of the air support before we even knew we were in a firefight. Total ambush: CO and most of the officers were dead in seconds. Somehow we fought our way out and marched for the coast and rescue. What was left of my platoon – fifteen guys – got put on the rear guard. We split in two groups, leapfrogging, engaging in staged retreats: quick ambushes, slowing them down while we bugged out past the next fortified position, setting up another ambush further up the road to the coast.

“The tactic worked for a while. One time, though, it was their turn, and we got caught in an ambush and, well, things got pretty ugly. That’s where my memory stops.”

“I never saw this in the news. All of this really happened?”

“Yeah. At least, that’s what I’m told happened. Like I said, I have no memory. I remember going in. Remember the initial attack. There’s no doubt in my mind it happened. Things get sketchy after – I only know bits and pieces. Then my memories disappear altogether. Amnesia.”

I looked out over the yard, not wanting to share what was going on behind my eyes.

“In the end, only five of us made it out, and me so cut up it was a miracle there weren’t only four.”

“I’m sorry.”

I looked back at her and forced a smile. “It’s okay. Fifteen years is a long time, anyway; people forget lots of things. Just sucks I can’t remember: all those people dead … seems like something you shouldn’t forget.”

“It’s odd, though.” She spoke the words offhandedly, an afterthought. I looked at her, confused. “The scars. You have no scars on your face or neck, yet they seem to cover the rest of your body. Why do you think that is?”

I shrugged. “Dunno. Never really gave it much thought, actually.”

Which was a lie. The scarring was something I’d always wondered about. Like the rest of my body, my face was pretty cut up, but no trace remained after a few months, unlike the rest of me. No one could figure out why.

Sienna looked at me skeptically, finally speaking. “Alright.” Her tone suggesting she wasn’t buying what I was selling, “Let’s move on to something else, then. What is it do you do with yourself for a living?” She smiled, and added quickly, “I mean, besides you predilection for perversion?”

For the briefest instant I paused to appreciate her ability to keep me off balance. She was very good. I covered my discomfort, draining the glass and pouring a quick refill. Smiling, Sienna held her glass out and I refreshed her, as well.

“Well, for a living wage, I do odd jobs, work part-time as a bouncer, wait tables downtown. I-”

She cut me off. “Tables? Where? Which restaurant?”

The Raging Rhino.” I wasn’t doing a good job of hiding my irritation at being interrupted.

She nodded, not seeming to care. “I’ve heard of it. Good food, fun atmosphere.”

“Yeah. My housemate head waiter there. He got me the job.” I shrugged. “Dues you pay to do the things you love.”

“Oh, now that sounds vaguely pretentious, like you are getting ready to sneak in a pick up line. Are you always so transparent?” Her voice was teasing, near mocking, and I grunted. “Or so self absorbed?” She laughed. “Exactly what is it you’re so cryptically trying to tell me, sir?”

I felt filleted.

“Okay.” The sound of the word was a resigned sigh; you could hear the mea culpa in my voice. “What I mean is all that stuff I do pays the bills and keeps food on the plate and a roof over my head. What I really do is … theatre … act. And direct, sometimes.”

“Oh.” Her expression shifted a shade, showing interest. “So you’re an actor. An artist?”

“Yeah.” I caught the question in her voice. “Yeah, if you want to call it that. At the risk of sounding truly pretentious, I can’t say if I’m an artist. I’m more comfortable with the actor label.”

Faint smile.

“So what’s this now? False humility?” Her expression was curious. “There’s a difference?”

What the hell, she asked.

“Okay … let’s go for a different perspective: art versus craft. I try to – for lack of a better word – create art in the same sense that, say, a craftsman would fashion a fine piece of furniture or pottery.”

“Did you rehearse that?”

I eyed her.

“Do you really want hear this? Maybe I should just go finish up the yard.”

“No.” Something in her expression shifted. “No. I’m sorry. Go on. Please.”

 I stared back at her a moment, then sipped from my drink. “Okay. A woodworker builds an ornate chest of drawers or cabinet. As he works the oak or redwood he can see results evolve and take shape. At the end of the day he stops and steps back and sees the art, really looks at it, thinking on what he’s done and making plans for what comes next. That doesn’t work for me: as a performer, everything moves too fast for that. One moment leads to another and another as the performance unfolds. Whatever you created in the moment dies in the next as you move with the action and dialogue.

“It’s not only the ephermal quality of the work. There’s no way to know if I’m creating art because everything is in transition. I can’t step back, get some distance and take a good look at what I’m doing like the craftsman does.” I chuckled. “Maybe Schrodener’s Cat might have pulled it off.” She grinned and laughed. “So, having eliminated me from a potentially objective view of the work I’m doing, there is left only leaves the audience, the people watching me, the only people in a position to judge whether or not I’m creating art.”

Silence. I looked at her expectantly.

“Are you always this self absorbed?”  Her voice was deadpan but there was a sense of amusement in her eyes.

She is teasing me!

“Occupational hazard.” I drained my glass. “Look at it this way: the best I can do is attempt to craft art using words, movement and timing. Sometimes it’s all unconscious: you walk away from a good performance with no clue what you did. Other times you stink up the joint, unable to connect with the work or the other actors, you’re completely out of sync and everything feels like a line reading. Then there are times a performance comes together and you know you nailed it, like … like hitting a walk-off grand slam.” I smiled sheepishly. “It’s there I come as close as I ever come to knowing I’ve created art.”

“Alright, I’ll buy that.” She switched up. “So what have you done?  Any movies, TV I’ve seen?”

“No. No movies or TV you’d ever notice me in.” I sipped my drink, flirting with the idea of telling her about the Halloween commercial, deciding I didn’t want to give her any fresh ammo.

“I worked stock theatre this summer.” She raised a questioning eyebrow. “Summer stock. Down south, LA, at the Beachfront Rep in Huntington Beach.”

Both eyebrows were up as she looked sideways and up at me.

“Plays? Who were you?”

Like feeding me quarters. “Torvald …”

A Dolls House.”

I smiled. “Yes. Ibsen.” She knows a little theatre. I felt my guard relax.

“Tell me about it.”


“The acting. You did other roles?”


“What was your favorite?”

The smile was automatic.


A Midsummer Night’s Dream?


“I wish you could see your smile. I swear, you could be naming a lover.”

I blinked.

“Say what?

“You seem taken with it. With the role. The character.”

I looked at her, puzzled, then not.

“Oh.” I smiled, then chuckled. “It was a good show.” The smile faded.

“And then it ended.”

I eyed her. “What we do doesn’t last long. Most of the time three to six weeks rehearsal – if you are lucky – then a run of two to six weeks and you move on. And you’re auditioning and learning lines in your spare time on days you perform and your days off. And a lot of times it’s just a job, just work. You do your thing, work your craft, and a lot of times that’s enough, you get in some great performances, work well with everyone, maybe learn some new things, new tricks. It’s all good.” I looked down, then sideways at her. “Every once in a lucky while, though, you get to work with a group of people who, by some odd quirk or dint of fate somehow bond and decide to have some fun.

“The magic of the ‘having of fun’ is the spontaneity of it. It’s an unspoken thing: it just happens, and you roll with it. And nothing can touch it, and for years long after, that particular experience remains in your memories, a special, maybe even cherished moment of fun and family and creativity in what can be a life spent alone and apart.”

I blink and looked at her, suddenly sheepish.

“I’m sorry. I’m running off at the mouth.”

“Oh, no.” She smiled with sudden brightness. “It’s quite all right. You have a beautiful voice; you communicate emotion so well, a sense of shared secrets. Not just that. Listening to you, I almost feel I see these things as you do. For example, I am listening to you and hearing how much you love what you do. I do not just ‘hear’ it as an idea, but feel your memory, a longing for something lost forever. A difficult thing, I think.” She stopped, taking a moment to stare at me, expression soft and friendly, understanding. “Listening to you, I sense if it were possible, you could see yourself doing that one show alone forever.”

“Whoa.” I stared at her. “Wow. Don’t tell me: you’re a poet or something? That is one off the wall analysis.” She smiled, but remained silent. I shrugged. “Okay, yeah. I could. Maybe.” I paused, thoughtful. “No. No, I couldn’t. Wouldn’t. I know better: forever is transitory.” She looked at me oddly, eyes narrowing. She seemed unhappy. “What I mean to say is when you do a lot of theatre, you live a gypsy life. Your world is about movement and about change. You embrace all of it, because that, more than anything, is what you learn from. From the things that change.

“You also know the occasion is rare in life when something comes together like Midsummer did. When it does you embrace the experience, immerse yourself in the world of the play, and all the while try to remember every detail, every spoken word, every moment, because this experience reminds you why you live this life, and you want to carry that feeling long past the play’s ending.” I smiled, embarrassed. I took a breath and let it ease out of me, thinking. “It’s like this: the experience is akin to meeting the love of your dreams and, as with all true romances, when the show ends, that loves disappears and the loss can almost break your heart.”

Sienna’s was smiling again. I grinned sheepishly.

“Yeah. I know. I really do come off a little self-absorbed.”

“A little?” She laughed at my hurt expression, the sound soft, warm. “No, I think I understand.  It – the life in the theatre – is life to you.” She smiled, her expression now thoughtful as she regarded me. “You speak as someone in love. I’ve wondered what drove people to pursue a life like yours, and perhaps I understand why, a little.” She paused, another smile shaping her features. “Your Midsummer Night’s Dream sounds so wonderful. I wish I could been there to see it.

“I wish you could have…” I said, too quickly and stopped, feeling instantly awkward, remembering where I was, and with whom. We sat a moment, staring at each other.

This is nice, I realized, being here with her on this hot, lazy afternoon.

“Anyway, that’s what I do.” I looked up at the sky, then back down, expression resigned. “The day isn’t getting any younger and I figure I have a lot left to do.” Yeah, that’s right: I was thinking that after all this pleasant conversation maybe she saw I was a regular, stand-up kind of guy, like they say in all the best noir, and would take pity on me and let me cut out.

Uh-oh …

The predatory smile lifted the corners of Sienna’s mouth, exposing the edges of her teeth.


“Yes.” Her voice took on a peculiar tone as she stood to collect the dishes. “Yes, you have chores to complete before you’re finally done.”

She met my eyes and I felt a sensation, a soft ache that reached out, caressing the edges of perception, a mournful song echoing in the distance.

She blinked, as if remembering herself, straightening. “Best get on with things, don’t you think?” She whispered the words, almost to herself, brushing past me into the kitchen, acting like I wasn’t even there. I stood and looked after her, sensing I’d missed something.

Shaking my head, I stepped off the porch and got to it.




October 6, 2016 Posted by | Sienna Rosetti, Telling Stories | , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment


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