Quickies

STAR OF DAVID

“I don’t believe in God.” Dawn heard his words, but she didn’t believe them. He was the most spiritually connected person she had ever met.

“I see God when you fuck me,” she whispered, dancing her fingers over his belly, clammy now with sweat from their lovemaking, her own belly showing a fine, matching sheen.

“What does he look like?” She could hear the smile in his voice, teasing her. “Old white guy with a beard and staff standing at the gates of heaven?”

“No, nothing like that… Do you want to enter the gates of heaven?” she asked, sliding her leg slowly over his and pressing the fullness of her breasts against his side.

Her wetness slid along his leg and she saw his cock twitch slightly in response.

“Not if I have to be good,” he grinned, grabbing her thigh and shifting her onto him. He was studying her sitting up so proudly on him, like some Rubenesque Venus with her full, lush curves, her hair like liquid, burnished copper in the early morning light.

“Oh, you have to be good,” she assured him, leaning in to find a kiss, capturing his hardening cock between them. “Very, very good.” She whispered the words against the razor stubble along the cleft of his chin.

It was always good between them, it had been that way since the beginning, when they had finally consummated their long distance love affair in his tiny flat in London, and it had been that way forever, as they met “Same-Time-Next-Year"-like again and again, unable to resist the magnetic pull between them. Once a year, or once every other, she would fly across the Atlantic to be swept into his arms for a few days of passion that neither of them ever wanted to end. Sometimes it was disrupted on her

end, sometimes on his. It was no different than any other affair, the usual heart-rending anchors at home, a husband who loved her enough but not quite, children who needed a mother. There were hundreds, probably hundreds of thousands like it, happening all the time, every day, year after year. She knew he had girlfriends, both short and long-term, but it wasn’t enough to keep them apart, and yet there was somehow never anything to completely catapult them together, either. They stayed there in some liminal space, and this was just the nature of their love affair, a powerful, painful, convoluted and compelling thing.

“David, how can I love you so much?” she whispered over his collarbone, stopping to tongue his nipples, smiling at his groan of pleasure.

“Because I’m God, apparently,” he replied, and she snorted at his cheeky grin.

“No, silly… you’re not God. But I definitely see God through you,” she affirmed, kissing her way down that sweet, tempting treasure trail toward his now fully hard cock.

Stretched out between his legs and laying her head on his thigh, she took it in her hands and looked up at it. A tower of strength. She worshipped here. This was a yearly pilgrimage, an altar where she came to kneel and pray and give thanks for all of her blessings. He was her wailing wall. The world could fall down around her, as it had a tendency to do over time, her father’s death, her sister’s nasty divorce, her husband’s distance, her own children’s betrayals, but David was a constant, her rock.

She worshipped his shaft as if it were holy, and to her, that is exactly what it was.

Her tongue surfacing it, every ridge and vein, the entire length, a sweet and silent invocation, again and again and again. His moans of pleasure fed her like nothing else she had ever known, and his cock filled her in ways she never knew possible. She wanted him, again, always, deep inside of her, filling that empty, aching space that only he seemed able to reach.

She was climbing him, feeling her own need weeping between her legs, and he held her hips locked and still, as he always did, looking into her eyes, before letting her sink down onto him with a deep sigh that was both pleasure and relief. It was as if their bodies completed some electrical circuit this way as she leaned over to kiss him, his tongue finding all of those places in her mouth that tickled and tingled all at once. She moved as if she were dancing for him, on him, the wet squelch of their suction, that glorious pull, the only music in the room. His hands found her breasts, heavy, swaying as she rocked, flicking her large pink nipples with his thumbs. She gasped in response, sucking at his tongue, her hair falling in wisps over his face, tickling his nose, his cheeks, his neck, until he couldn’t stand it and pressed her back slightly, breaking their kiss.

She sat up on him then, sinking low, lower, trying to press him into her core, she wanted to feel him buried so far within her that she could taste him in her mouth. He groaned and arched his back slightly, giving her a few more centimeters to a depth that seemed immeasurable. She was looking down at him through half closed eyes, their pleasure like a wave they were surfing together, and he reached for her hands, holding tightly.

“Do you really see God?” he asked hoarsely, his breath coming fast. She nodded, her lips parted, she smiled slightly, squeezing his hands in response. “What does he look like?” The question was serious now, not teasing her, his eyes genuinely asking her to tell him.

“Colors,” she murmured, closing her eyes, impaling herself, impossibly, just a little further onto his shaft by rocking forward, then back, sending a deep shockwave of pleasure through her body. “And light. Like a rainbow imploding, turning in on itself again and again. Can you feel it? Can you see it?” Her voice was a whisper, but her eyes were on his now. She thought she could see his eyes glistening with tears. He was shaking his head, and her heart ached at his pained expression, the way his jaw worked. He wanted to see. He desperately wanted to.

“Fuck me,” she said, tugging at him, urging him to roll her over onto her back. He did, moving into her softness, that yielding opening that received him without resistance as he searched her flesh with his cock. She was wrapping her legs around him, her hands pulling at his back, her breath fast, her voice a hoarse rasp in his ear, “Fuck me, David, fuck me to God.” The sound of that phrase, sacred or profane, thrilled him. He felt like a god on her, in her, feeling the sweet waves of her orgasm beginning to draw him even more deeply into her.

“Fill me,” she urged, her muscles squeezing him deliciously, and he came, shuddering and meeting the thrust and clutch of her in a blinding white flash.

Their slow return to the world came in gradual shifts, his body collapsing onto hers, the shift and turn of him as she labored to breathe under his weight, the mingling of their hands, the seeping between her legs, thick, like sap, the roll of him onto his belly, hugging the pillow beneath his head, the deep even sound of his breathing. Dawn dozed, in and out, the light on the ceiling brighter now, the day begun out there somewhere, this first day of Hanukkah. It was after Christmas, the holiday her husband cared about, and she had spent it with him. This was her holiday, her week of worship, and she was praying here, in a little flat in London with a man she felt knew her better than anyone in the world, yet whose presence she had physically basked in only a dozen times at most. The world was a funny place.

She rolled to look at him in his sleep, and gasped when she saw the scar on his back. She hadn’t noticed it in last night’s darkness in their fumbling hurry. It was enormous, very near his spine. “David?” she whispered, not wanting to wake him, wanting to know.

“Yeah?” He was awake.

“What happened?” she asked, tracing over the ugly, jagged scar. It was puckered and dented, and looked like someone had been digging into his skin.

“Melanoma,” he said flatly. “Malignant. They took it out two months ago, but it was already into my bones.”

She lost her breath, feeling like someone had kicked her in the stomach. She found herself sobbing without even knowing she was doing it. Light was always muted here in this part of the world, but things now truly looked as if the color had been bled out of them, and she felt as if she were wandering in a thick, gray London fog. David turned to hold her, and she railed against him, simply wailing, pounding against his strongly muscled chest hard enough that he would later discover fist-shaped bruises.

He didn’t try to quiet her, he just let her storm, until finally she eddied and then ebbed, in hitching sighs, fits and starts.

“This is why I don’t believe in God,” he said finally. His voice was as lifeless as she had ever heard it and she winced, pained, feeling as helpless and hopeless as he sounded. “If there was a God, and he cared about what happened to us, then I wouldn’t have cancer, and…” he hesitated only a moment, the words barely above a whisper as he breathed, “I would have you.”

“I’m sorry, David.” It was hardly enough. She didn’t know what else to offer him, although she desperately wanted to comfort him, ease his pain, and her own. “Maybe there is a bigger picture that we can’t see…”

She felt his laugh, cynical and bitter, against her ear. “Yeah, sure. Famine, war, it’s all part of the plan. My grandfather’s ashes carried over Krakow on the wind. All part of some grand plan. You can’t really believe that?” He sounded incredulous. “This isn’t heaven, Dawn. This is hell on earth, every damned day.”

She clasped his hand in hers, pressing it between her breasts. Her heart was beating hard. “I believe in us. I believe that what we have transcends anything else, everything else, even death.” Her voice was shaking. “Even death. Yes, ok, this is hell on earth… but it is also heaven on earth. This is all we will ever have, and it really is divine.”

He pressed his shaking hand to hers, over her heart, his trembling lips against her lips, and they tasted her tears together in that one moment of connection, a brief, fleeting thing that was all they ever had, all we ever have, something forever sacred and inviolate, one transcendent moment of wonder in the great mystery of it all.