An Early Spring
… the first short piece in an ongoing series of lyrical literary erotica…
offered for the ears as much as the eyes…
no music, no special effects…
just one Naked Narrative…
Audio Recording Coming Soon…

Beautiful Adulterous Bitch…

An Early Spring
Written by
Y. Benali Tracy Williams 

          Her eyes – by far not her most attractive feature – were of the deepest azure imaginable, caressed as they were by the pale moonlight, lulling him gently into her infinite depths, drowning his prudence in a whirlpool of desire too powerful to battle – too magical to control – with reason.

His fingertips felt for what he could not see, so blinded was he by her unearthly light… her eyes… her eyes were the windows to his soul… through them he could see the golden key… only she could unlock him… only she could set him free to lay down upon this bed of sand… the bed that he had secretly labelled ‘Sin.’

He closed his own eyes to feel his way further into her… closer into her than he had ever dared before… whispering words while so much went unsaid, undoing himself slowly with declarations of her sweet, satin skin… only occasionally did he dare the questions she did not acknowledge by answering even though his lips could feel her smiling all the while…

Through his probing vocabulary she tapped her tongue, offering a subtle blush so much like a maiden it was impossible to tell the difference… perhaps in another era he would not have been so fraught in the knowing that he would have to pay it all back in the long haul to maturity… maybe – in a different time – his words would not have been so tight. But now, when human bodies do not touch naturally, now when the sexes know too much and now when our reproductive organs are the most abused goods exchanged among men… he knew everything… he knew he would be forced to pay the price of yielding to her when she did not belong to himshe would never be his… and he could not battle this with common sense…

In this loneliest age of acute mass insecurity, the girls who brought to him their needs were every one of them a heart he could not hurt and so he had invented an imaginary bride – waiting for him at home – so painful was the prospect of rejecting any girl born into this tormenting twenty-first century… tonight not one face persevered in his mind’s recollections for longer than a second as she brushed her lips over his skin… kisses softer than a child, touching tender as a mother, as if she really were his – and only his – lover… she held him in her arms, effortless in her every motion, kissing away the crushing conviction that this would one day boomerang… this kiss, these lips, those eyes could not obliterate what was bound to come if he went on…

He wondered why she did not flinch at the subtext and syntax of what he bravely said before… silenced by her smile, he buried his face in her breasts and – inhaling her more deeply than he did the spring’s early morning mist – he stopped speaking a while to try and feel how it must feel to be as free as she appeared to be…

Though the breeze sang a vibrant song, the sands did not stir. He was holding her closer than he had imagined he might… closer than he had ever gone before, exhilarated by the intensity with which he sought life inside her while she – breathing no heavier than a feather – held onto him as easily as a complete and complicit lover might hold him forever…

He paused then, imagining himself as an over-cautious archaeologist, poised on the edge of discovering some timeless treasure which just might hold the key to the universe… he dared to look directly into her eyes, wanting her to know how much this meant to him… almost losing confidence lest she – too perfect for his clumsy touch – disintegrate or turn to sand…

The merciful darkness allowed his blush to fade without remark while she fluttered – barefooted – over the sands, lovelier than any butterfly and rarer by far… maintaining her maiden-like innocence with a shoe in each hand… flickers of light dancing across her cheek… him watching, knowing all the while that she was a desire which might bring him to maturity or madness… she had been brought here for him to discover how it felt to hold a woman for the very first time… how it might feel to have one woman – one woman – for eternity… if only he could conquer the curse of conscience, if only he could melt into her as easily as she – to his very first proposal – had simply said “yes.”

Taking her by the waist as the waves sang their song, he kissed her until she dropped her shoes and settled her naked feet on his then began walking her to the water’s edge where the waves promised to carry them far away from thought as she – with dainty fingers threaded through his – gave him her mouth again and again and again until they were drenched in a salty sea-spray that could neither cool nor quell the heat between them.

She held no regard for the future, he maintained, an assertion which only made her hold him closer… and as they sunk to the sand on their knees he fought off the fear of tomorrow in his mind because all the proselytizing in the book could not drown this unfathomable need to know her…

Lying back into the water she held his head as his mouth came to her breasts and together they traded his convictions for the priceless possibility of her breath in his, of his in hers… waves came over him; cooling reminders of the impending solitude he dreaded but was sure would come… drenched by sand and sea she, with eyes as wide open as the sky, had cast adrift all responsibility… she was dancing through eternity, dancing over every grain of sand, only dancing – saying nothing – dancing under him until he too began dancing… dancing the same rhythm, dancing recklessly – saying nothing – just dancing with her and through her…

He hid his face deep in the curve of her neck, knowing she could not feel his salty tears – mixed as they were with sweat and sea – and, yielding completely to his need, he let go of everything for one sublime moment in eternity.

And so it was.

Regarding the moon, she sighed and stiffened and suddenly sanity took her back. They stood up and – holding hands – began to walk away, leaving in the sand only temporary indentations which the forgiving tide of time was soon to wash away, never to betray their ever having been together… carrying with them only memories, they walked on… weightless, formless memories which only the mind would retain as testimony to the guilt he felt – surely – they must share as they approached her home and her husband.

***

          “Si tu ne m’aime pas, moi, je t’aime” sang the words of La Bohéme* as Don, who had been pacing up and down his study for about an hour, came to a sudden standstill.

Nothing – no matter how tantalisingly antiquitous – could hold his attention in the wake of his Evelyn’s prolonged absence. He had abandoned the microscope to put on the record in a frantic attempt to cast himself adrift from the putrefying stench of self-pity seeping through every pore.

Jealousy centres in the gut, he had noted.

Expecting her to return within the hour, he had chosen the record with subconscious hope that it might manipulate memories in her of how they used to be, before…

In this world of iron where her beauty was caught like one of his butterflies, dig as he might inside himself, Don could not excavate the solution he knew was lying beneath this hideous ego.

“You think too much,” she had said.

“Just kiss me,” she had said.

But that was way back when, so long ago… 

It might have been remarked how Don seemed not like a man consumed by the green-eyed monster. He could have convinced any one that his place in history remained intact, based as it was not upon quicksand. But – face to face with himself – the mirror showed him more a boy than a man. Never had he believed such damage could be done to one so acutely intelligent. An unusual sensitivity had failed to save Don from the crudest malaise of the twentieth century… this pathetic performance of an ageing cuckold… no respected reputation, no professional adulation could change the fact that his wife had sacrificed her purity for the most misused currency this putrid twenty-first century had to give…

For these shameful reasons Don had sequestered himself in the study, intent upon isolating and examining such common emotions so that he may resume work on human history with a clean mind… scrutinizing grains of sand through the microscope suggested a madness he had not thus far suspected in himself… every turn of the dial enlarged only one vision… the image of her entwined in the embrace of this… young… boy… this lean-limbed youth she had refused to name.

A mature man would have unlocked the mystery by now. A real man would move on swiftly… this would not happen to a real man…

What a piece of work I am, he thought, trading his place at the desk for Puccini and the window… she had been to the beach with the boy for seven consecutive evenings and – now – this evening had become an entire night… he knew – without looking – that the tide had come in and – as the whalebone in his throat pushed harder – he stood at the edge of the mirror choking and coughing and trembling, too terrified to dive into the deeper regions of his darker self… rewinding and replaying the image of her being touched… his Evelyn being kissed… his Evelyn being held again and again and again by another man…

Swallowing his salty tears, he forced his mind to forge a memory of her alone… her way back when, so long ago… with her precocious, lady-like manners… her swinging to and fro… white socks up to the knee, flowers in her hair, humming coquettishly, blushing her schoolgirl grin only for him until a sudden scent of the seashore came dancing into the room, bringing Evelyn the woman – at long last – home…

Behind him in the mirror Don beheld his wife’s entrance… her perfectly petite form belonged not in the mirror beside his burly frame… he could hear his own heart beating in his head… her newly-cropped, canary-coloured hair – with its strangely tomboyish allure – did not eclipse her girlish features… but why could he not even look at her directly?

Pretending to correct his badly-buttoned shirt, he felt the fleshy tell-tale signs of declining self-care; his belly bulging over the belt she had bought for him the day he had put her over his knee and she – laughing like a schoolgirl as she pretended to run away – had pulled her socks so hard up over her knees that the silk had ripped… how their limbs had ached every morning during that second summer of intense, excessive play…

Now  – watching her reflection like a hawk – he saw the wet hem of her dress while she – humming a tune all her own, ignoring the opera as if it were not on – padded through the room and began her usual ritual of clearing away the debris of his solitary working night… with her usual disregard for history, she glanced nonchalantly at the microscope then bent forward to retrieve an apple core he had dropped on the floor and forgotten.

Though her movements had grown more graceful – less playful – she looked not one sunset older than the twenty short summers she had been when he first chose her as his mate eight bitter winters ago…

And one salty drip dropped from Evelyn’s dress to the carpet… she breezed past – offering a scent he knew was not uniquely hers – dropped the apple core into the waste basket and glanced at him with an expression too innocent to permit him to speak… the crow’s feet around his eyes trebled as a tidal wave of resentment washed salt into his wounds… he could almost hear the wild tide outside… he knew why her dress was wet…. he would not ask why the dress was wet…

“Si tu ne m’aimes pas, moi, je t’aime,” sang the words of the record again and then Evelyn – with an unwavering touch – lifted the needle and turned off the machine, bringing silence to the study with her magnificent smile.

Far back in the memory he could see her; sitting on the swing, smiling through the sunshine, singing her little song, singing it just for him… he could almost feel their first embrace, the kiss that had taken him by surprise… her little hand taking hold of his to offer him that tiptoed kiss, the kiss which taught him everything, the kiss which gave everything perfect reason… but now no reason could ease the bleeding sensation inside him while she – removing her damp shoes – curled up on the sofa like a contented little kitten, releasing one velvet sigh as she closed her deep-blue eyes and settled her blonde head on the cushion.

‘In Sicily,’ he recalled, ‘the black, black snakes are innocent, the gold are venomous’*…

In the mirror he saw himself ebbing before the flow… it was time… it was time to go… he must hurry up… he must do it now… time is eternally out of sync, he thought… I am destined to exist through and beyond this, he thought… she and Iwe were chronically out of time, she and I… I must know… I must go

And then – suddenly, magnificently, majestically – as a real man should, he dived… He dived deeper than he had ever dared inside himself before… diving with his eyes wide open, looking down into his own infinite depths… knowing he would find the courage to turn away from the mirror, to turn away from that pale reflection and look directly into her eyes… her eyes… those infinite whirlpools of stunning azure… in those depths he would never languish again… her needs now were too deep for him… he wanted to despise her because hatred would make it easier when swimming this far down might cause him to drown at any moment… but down further he knew he must go… through eight bitter winters she had shone, brilliantly oblivious to his inevitable decline… despite every grain of sand he scrutinized with his desperate hands, despite all the talk, despite all the glory of archaeology,  she alone remained his finest discovery… she would always be the most precious part of this incomplete picture called life… nevermore would he bathe in her purity, never again would she belong to him, never after this could he breathe her in…

Evelyn, Evelyn… she had been forced to make the choice: Stagnate or Sin

He wondered about the youth, whether his clumsy fumblings over Evelyn’s skin galvanized any guilt in his young mind… a twenty-first century mind, at that…  whether she shared any guilt at all, he wondered… in two thousand years of guilt could she shamelessly swim… but two thousand years of guilt could be undone if one man could take one step away from the impossible ideals and ludicrous sentiments passed down by generations who had played at being both God and victim simultaneously… two thousand years had she steered stealthily away from all forms of worship… she could never really be the receptacle for his monstrous emotions, all of which centred in the madness of the mind…

The body remembers her better than the mind, he thought… she is the girl I taught to catch butterflies, he thought… running through the sunny fields chasing after my net… dark-blue midnights bent over the glass case where she christened every wing I pinned down with names she chose from her burgeoning brilliance…

For her he had built the aviary, just before she arrived at twenty-three… and for ever after he always knew why the caged birds sang only when Evelyn walked by… he had opened her mind to the infinite possibilities contained in every grain of her own magnificence… Evelyn; Evelyn: from her first bleed… Evelyn was the revolution waiting – so patiently – inside every woman…

I am a fact of the culpable recorded past, he thought… I try to possess history but history possesses me, while she… while she… I must set her free… she is the unwritten vision of a future-in-waiting… waiting for man to wake up…

Don glared into the mirror: behind him Evelyn’s eyes were closed. What would it be, then? What might it be? Would he persist as the miserable moralist intent on making her as miserable as himself? She needed to be young before she grew old… he had been born old… now a miserable cuckold, destined to suffer to the bitter end… must he marinade in this misery for nothing more than spite?

Swimming through these tormenting thoughts in the loneliness of his soul… the same thoughts they had once explored together joyfully as she became a woman, Don felt himself gasping for air… but Evelyn did not stir… she knew what she was doing; like a wilful child pretending to sleep, denying him the chance to ask that one overwhelming question…

– THE END – 

3,093 WORDS

* Giacomo Puccini, La Bohème, 1895; **D.H. Lawrence; Snake Poem, 1921

A downloadable PDF of An Early Spring is here: 

“…her newly-cropped, canary-coloured hair – with its strangely tomboyish allure – did not eclipse her girlish features… but why could he not even look at her directly?”

“…drenched by sand and sea she, with eyes as wide open as the sky, had cast adrift all responsibility…

Writing By The Love – “That Is Not Enough,” Reading From The Soul – “Which Is Wrong,” 
In Defiance Of The Mind – Who Claims To Be “Right.” 
(As a ‘Real Man’ once dared to suggest).

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