When she has passed through one of the veiled archways that lead from the room, she pauses and waits for me. She stands off to one side, watching me, with a look of... feigned demureness, I think. As if she would gladly take the lead, but knows she ought to wait for a sign from me.
        Amused, I give it. I nod, smiling invitingly. "Lead me where you wish, dear."
        She raises an eyebrow, her face brightening with the loosening of constraint I have granted her. Her sapphire eyes glint with promise, and---
        She does not take me by the hand, but by the wrist.
        Such a small simple thing, but what a show of dominance is caught within it! Quite subtle yet incredibly pointed; she is skilled at her play. I have not yet decided if I shall allow her to maintain this apparent dominance, or if we shall make a game of forcing it out. But there is quite time enough to let things unfold, and decide new direction from wherever they seem to lead. I am in no hurry this evening.
        She guides me through a strange series of passageways - turning often, and soon growing quite narrow. I am not familiar with this building - in fact I am not even sure if Meres owns it, or has merely borrowed it for the evening, I have been so long away! - but it occurs to me that these must be the servants' passageways, designed to be hidden from sight yet connected to all rooms, that the servants may move swift and unseen to wherever they are bidden. A part of me is disgusted, to be moving between walls which were designed to conceal the lower, menial classes. Yet at the same time, I am excited by the thought, I suppose there is some thrill in the novelty of it, as well as the taboo. It is as if I were to walk through the streets of my desert city, shrouded in the black veils of pious women - being myself a man, and, oh earthly delights so far from pious!
        She does not speak, and her slippered feet are silent on the carpeted floor, so that the only sound is the faint rustling of the crêpe and organza and lace and silk she is clad in. For all of the many fabrics she is draped in, she ought to look altogether bundled up, but ah, Meres! Your artistry is flawless. The material is so arranged that it seems as mere waves of water, brushing against her, light and transparent, leaving behind small pieces of seaweed to wrap gracefully around her slim form, scattering droplets over all, which glitter in the light. Her skin is tinged with cerulean, her hair is a dark violet. I would suppose that such effects were achieved with help from Mephisto's theater connections, only the colors seem of such a different quality from the heavy greasepaint of the stage---
        Ah! But I will not dissect the creation of such a creature! I should destroy the novelty by doing so, and it is the novelty which is so appealing. Mere sex, I have had so many thousand times... but with a water spirit, not that is something new, even to me. Ah, Meres, you are a wonder! For not only have these girls the appearance, but also the proper character for the part. I am borne upon rapids, and know not toward what end I am carried...
        She takes a key from - where? I had not thought there was any place of concealment in such a frothy bit of clothing! She opens a door, and locks it again when we have entered - leaving the key in the lock, that it may not be misplaced in the passions which will ensue. (There is such an air of sharp intelligence about this girl; I am certain she was hired this evening for the services I am now employing her in, rather than mere food service or cleaning, or even simple decoration, though she should do well at any.)
        The room is - not surprisingly - all in shades of blue, decorated in a fashion similar to the ballroom. But it is darker, there are fewer diamonds and more swashes of rich violet, even to hints of crimson in the deepest shadows. The room is not very small, but it is made to feel so, with heavy wall hangings and the dark colors, all in a low, diffused light. (The window is blocked by thick drapes of crushed velvet.) The effect is that of a hidden grotto, a private subterranean cave, a place not to be discovered by any man.
        The bed is a low one, large and circular, and as the girl sits upon it, I see that the mattress is filled with water, or some other liquid. For the whole bed is set in motion by her movement, low waves rippling over its surface. Oh what a thing! I shall really have to congratulate Meres, this evening is truly spectacular.
        And I see right away that this peculiar sort of mattress shall provide all sorts of lovely additions to our forthcoming activities.
        She curls one slender finger, beckoning me toward her. I move closer, but stand just out of her reach, curious as to what she will do.
        Smiling mischievously - almost smirking! - she lies back on her elbows, and extends her long legs toward me. They are able to reach me, and her delicate slippered feet pull me closer, her legs gradually wrapping around my waist.
        I like this one, she is both creative and determined. I let myself be pulled close, trailing my fingertips lightly over her slim and well-formed legs - but what form would a spirit chose to take, but that of perfection? Certainly we did, although after so many years, even our arts begin to fail, and---
        I leap onto the bed, grabbing her, pulling her form close to me, kissing silent her yelp of surprise, my hands running hungrily over every inch of her, delighting in the curve of her hips, the smoothness of her back, the softness of her breasts, pressing my hands hard against her, as if to sink into her youthful skin, losing my aging body in the perfection of hers...
        Her body writhes in a most delicious fashion, curling and arching and spreading, as graceful as seaweed fluttering in an underwater breeze. The waves of the bed press away from and back against us, rushing away under us, pressing into us and pushing us closer still... She pushes my jacket off my shoulders, I force her onto her stomach to find the clasps of her dress - they are hidden on her back, Meres always designs such things to be invisible so as not to distract in any way from the clothing, but easy to remove if one knows what to look for. (After so many years, I well know what to look for.) The dress is a single piece - all she wears now is the slippers and the delicate vine of tiny pearls and gemstones at her neck. I leave the necklace there (the slippers will come free soon enough of their own accord), for it looks quite lovely against her aquamarine skin, and brings out the greenish highlights of her eyes. I give scarcely a thought to the fact that the color of her skin is consistent over all her body. The illusion has been made with such care and detail, that I am able to let myself believe it. (Oh, my gratitude to you, Meres!) The long strands of her violet hair trickle down across her shoulders, and wind delicate patterns over the sheets and pillows beneath her. Her slender fingers unbutton my shirt, my pants, pushing them free of me, replacing the cool fabric with the heat of her mouth, her teeth and tongue tearing pleasure from every inch of my skin. I fall back, and let her ravish me for awhile, throwing all my thought into this moment, this pleasure, letting myself be caught by the naiad's net. I am in her domain now, and subject to her laws and whims - though only, of course, so far as I desire to be, for she is yet a creation of mere earth, and though she may stand above mortal man, she is yet beneath me... though, I suppose not at just this moment, mmm.
        She forces me onto my stomach, pressing her full length against my back, rubbing her body against mine - teasing me, moving just as she would were I turned to face her, and myself inside her. I life myself against her, delighting in the feel of her warm body curling around mine, clinging to me with such hunger for a satisfaction she cannot reach without me. Though she has the illusion of control, she knows it truly rests with me. But I shall let her play...
        Her fingers and tongue have by now found my most sensitive places, having sought them ceaselessly out all this time. She makes full use of them now, scraping her fingernails teasingly against my chest, drawing so near the sensitive places and then dancing quickly away; her tongue darting lightly over the small of my back, lapping hotly at my skin, skimming slowly along the crease - then darting quickly away. My breath comes in gasps, my every nerve alert and begging, pleading for more still more, aching for consummation and yet reveling in the heated yearning which floods all through me... Ah, the pleasures of the flesh! What wonders are to be found here, among the intricate interplay of nerve and chemical, flesh and thought, perception and response. There is still newness to be found here, for though the sensations have come and gone for thousands of years, the touch of every person holds in it some new subtlety, a different scent a different texture of flesh, a different heat of the mouth and touch...
        I am again on my back, and she holds her body low over mine, electricity darting through the humid heat of the air between us. Her skin is flushed, turning it a warm violet. Her hair hangs in damp curls - moist now from the sweat of our entangled bodies, the salt of our skin replacing the salt of the sea. One hand runs lightly over my slick chest, her touch almost tender... Then she lowers herself onto me in one swift motion, her nails drawing blood from my hips, and our voices at last fly free from our throats with the rapture of pleasure redoubled in intensity, all our sense focused on those places in which that strongest of ecstasy is contained, as we reach desperately toward it, our bodies refusing to be held back. No silent seaspirit in woman's form is she, I have set free her siren song...

        It is not long after when we collapse into the waves, our bodies exhausted and still tingling, as we float on the echoing ripples of our pleasure. Sighing deeply, she rolls back toward me, draping her limbs leisurely over me. A low sigh of contentment rumbles from me in answer, and I roll into the waves, resting on my stomach and letting the low ripples massage my front side. It is such a soothing sensation, the gentle motion stroking my still-tingling skin, passing soft hands over it, rubbing away the last jittery explosions from my nerves...
        I am startled suddenly from the doze into which I had fallen, my body tensing hard and rigid. Startled, I open my eyes and force my thoughts back into awareness, trying to sort out what had woken me. She lays beside me, one leg curled around mine, her fingers tracing lightly over my back---
        Her fingers tracing a pattern I recognize, one that sends my heart plummeting into depths I had tried to hard to forget, once I realize what it is.
        I sit bolt upright, sending her tumbling aside, and I reel on her, my eyes flashing dangerously. "Do not touch that!" I boom commandingly, my voice deep and threatening, my body flushing in angry flame.
        She blinks up at me, her eyes dull with languor and blank with confusion, not even fear having quite reached her yet. (So much for the intelligence I thought I saw! But it is my own fault, for having allowed the illusion such control.) "Why not? It is a lovely tattoo, so detailed! I have always---"
        I slap her face, growling threateningly, and she becomes silent, her brow creased with confusion, her lips in a pout and her violet eyes sparkling with sudden moisture. What do I care for her! She is a mere plaything, there are countless others to be had. I have done with this one, she has lost her novelty and thus her appeal.
        "It is no mere decoration," I mutter darkly, leaning over the side of the bed and finding my clothing. "It is a hateful thing, and I will not speak of it."
        "Oh, no! Do not put your shirt over it, I wish to see it!"
        My eyes widen and I whirl on her, almost too furious to speak. "Woman! Have I not told thee to let it be! Thou hast--- I--- woman you are made of nothing but the dust on the ground, you have no claim to my attentions. Leave me."
        She hesitates, still confused, but the fear finally taking hold. How did I ever believe she was intelligent! What a ridiculous child she is. "Did I not tell you to leave? Leave me! I wish to be alone, and I certainly no longer desire your company."
        She swallows hard - I think the miserable little thing is actually offended! Oh gracious Meres, have you not learned to train these girls? You did such a lovely job on their appearance and personality, but you seem to have neglected a few things... But she does leave, sliding her dress back over her head - though leaving it unfastened, for she cannot reach it herself, and would not dare now ask for my assistance. Let her leave in disarray, and be seen thus in shame. As she reaches for the doorknob, she notices the key still in the lock. She pulls it free and throws it onto the floor behind her, then slams the door after her exit.
        I chuckle tiredly to myself, falling back onto the bed, letting the waves swell around me. What a ridiculous little child, so hurt by something so simple... the fact that she had presumed herself more than just an evening's bit of pleasure was quite a laughable mistake. I do not care to learn more of her, and certainly I will not see her again, for she will not return and we should not allow her to. Oh children of earth, what egotistic follies you stumble so easily into!
        And oh, what chasms you knock us back into, when you so stumble, your clumsy motions destroying our balance and sending us tumbling down... I know better than to fight the memories which are struggling against the barriers I have set against them. They will do nothing but plague me until they are let run rampant for a time... and the evening is yet young, there will be time enough to catch them again, and bind them back into the dark place where they will not trouble me.
        I turn onto my stomach, burying my face in the gentle silk sheets. My throat grows tight, and I feel my body curl up, then stretch out abruptly in a spasm of pain, as memory sets my flesh aflame. There is darkness, darkness which seeps into my blood, my blood which already runs so dark, it ran so dark, the blood flowing into my wings and staining my feathers, turning all to blackness and decay...

        The darkness had consumed me, had eaten away my wings, they had fallen from me in hideous clumps of putrid decay, the black feathers staining the ground around me. Once, I had not felt pain, if a feather was caught and pulled away from me, it was nothing. My body was transient, it would come and go and change if I willed it, I had only to will it and it obeyed, it was not bound by the physical constraints of this strange little realm, a world of His whimsy, and, really, His folly... for what sort of existence can come from a construct so bizarre? Who could cobble together spirit with mere flesh, and expect anything at all to come of it?
        But so He had, and we were curious, and so set to watch over these ridiculous little bastard creatures. Yet as obviously subservient as they should have been, there was something about this world of theirs which intrigued us... something which drew us ever-closer... there seemed to be so many new things, always popping up almost unbidden, all over this odd little earth... such newness, such novelty! Our curiosity led us back again and again, and we allowed our bodies to become substantial enough to feel the strange new things which mankind created... and we were captivated, there was such beauty here! And such beauty that we, with our knowledge of All Things, could create, if only we had not to have our every motion heeded by that One with such absurdly concrete rules about every last thing...
        And my memory is washed dry after all these years, I have only faded remnants, for Time has chipped away at us, as we never thought it could... we grow old, though we remain young, we grow weary, though we still walk. Oh that we yet had our wings, and could pull our aching feet from this dirty ground! But wings are not permitted in the world of men, and they were taken from us, taken with such pain and such torment... the pain has washed away all the pleasure that led to it, I do not remember, I---
        No I do not remember, I will not! I will let this ancient lament pass through me, but I will not think of that, I will not remember.
        Ensnared by gravity, we are bound now to this earth, and none know what shall become of us when it passes away, we dare not think of it we---
        I will not think of it! I have torment enough in the present, I do not need to think of what future hell--- oh but that is the answer there, of course, for there is no hope for such as us. Mankind has had its Saviour, we have seen Him come and go, and He held no message of promise for us. (Though you, you! You ridiculous little half-breeds, that you should dismiss so lightly the very coming of God! We find it terribly amusing, that so many have decided Christ was a mere teacher, someone with a few apt comments, and easy advice which could be turned into pithy sayings to quote amongst family. Oh you wretched little fools.)
        I feel the scars on my back tug at the skin surrounding - they have never really healed, such huge gashes that were left on me... and I tried, oh, I tried, I---

So, I have learned better than to take a day off merely on a whim. :p I did that, and wound up with a deathly headache the next day. So bad that by the time I got home from work, I really couldn't keep my eyes open for more than a minute or two at a time - not exactly ideal conditions for novelling. But! I plopped down and did not even let myself touch my email - I got a plug-in for my firefox that blocked out the websites I told it to (gmail, facebook, last.fm, my usual time-wasters) for a few hours, and pushed on through. Luckily I'd written about half the day's quota on Tuesday morning, before my headache hit full strength, and I churned out a good bit more over breakfast this morning.

Plus I'm getting into a scene I can really sink my teeth into and wring ridiculous amounts of word-count from. (And probably a few more mixed metaphors while I'm at it.)

Phistos tend toward rambling when they get angsty and reminiscent. <3