The Story of V: An Erotic Voyage
Returning to Tunnels from Catherine’s balcony, Vincent’s thoughts were racing. The evening had been extraordinary.
Vincent’s heart and mind were full of fear and wonder. He and Catherine
had kissed. She had kissed him and he had kissed her. He could not
determine which was the more astonishing. As he tugged off his boots
and undressed for bed, Vincent felt with relief that the madness of the
past was truly behind him now. Donning his nightshirt, he was struck
anew with anxiety over the future . . . there could be more evenings
like this one . . . the possibility of intimacy with Catherine loomed
large, exciting and daunting him.
He crossed to the nightstand and splashed cool water over his face. He
did not use a towel, but combed his hair with his wet fingers,
distributing the coolness, wishing to dampen his rising concerns. He
sat down with a book but closed it immediately, realizing he could not
focus on the pages before him but only on the events of this evening.
He and Catherine had been seated crossed-legged on the floor of her
balcony, in the shadows, lower than the lights. They sat facing each
other, their knees touching, as they took turns reading from a newly
published book of poetry by Jim Morrison. Perhaps it was this reckless
composer’s haunting voice that had opened Vincent and Catherine to
their new proximity.
Whatever the prompt, when they had risen to bid each other goodbye,
Catherine had turned her beautiful face up to his and he had lowered
his face and their lips met in a chaste kiss. Only feather soft at
first, then as her full lips parted and his heart thudded in his chest,
their embrace became insistent and full of need. And then, each was
taking the other . . . oh, the taste of her! Vincent shook his
head now, droplets of water falling from his locks. He stood and began
to pace in the chamber, reliving his greatest fears in retrospect. He
had not turned into a vicious brute. He had not torn her silken skin
with his dreadful hands. He had not ruined everything with all the
terrible suppositions he had heretofore imagined.
He sat down on the side of the bed, feeling suddenly drained. His joy
in realizing he could indeed be tender with Catherine was tempered with
a fresh worry – what now? How could he possibly continue to please her?
He, who was well-read; he, who was without guidance; he, who had known
only violence, rejection and failure in affairs of the heart?
Vincent felt a huge responsibility bear down upon him. He subscribed
none of this duty to Catherine, only to himself. Looking down at his
large hands, furred and clawed, he shuddered with trepidation. Wearily,
he stretched out across his big bed and fell into a fitful sleep.
In the wee hours wakening, Vincent became aware of voices . . . women’s
voices . . . multiple, no, just one. . . blended of register, tone,
enunciation, volume and quality of many women. “Come now,” She
called, “learn to love me.”
Vincent rose from the bed, surprised that his chamber was in complete
darkness without a single candle still glowing. He felt a satin
blindfold press across his eyes. “Your abilities are known, Vincent.
Kneel down,” She commanded.
Compelled to obey, Vincent knelt upon the chamber floor.
“Remove your garment,” She said.
Again, he complied.
Then there came Hands . . . the hands of women . . . touching him in
the darkness. “Now you touch me, Vincent.” She said, her request more
like instruction. He turned his head to left and right and reached
tentatively out in front of him, but here there was nothing except the
cool air and the silence. Reconsidering, he pulled his hands back to
his sides, his fingers curling into loose fists.
“I want you to touch me,” She said, more insistent.
“I’m afraid to . . .” Vincent responded, “I’m afraid to . . . harm you . . . my hands . . . my hands may hurt you.”
“Then, let’s dispense with your hands,” She replied. Vincent’s hands
were drawn behind his back and he felt leather cuffs being applied to
his wrists and buckled together, binding him. He never thought to
struggle against it. The captivity comforted him, he felt swaddled and
Now the Hands continued to move over Vincent’s body, stroking his chest and limbs, raking gently through his body hair.
A gently adamant Fist began twisting in his long hair, tugging his head back. The Hands were guiding, shaping, teaching him.
He detected the fragrance, taste and shape of a large strawberry which
he suckled, drawing it into his mouth between his teeth, tenderly
curling his tongue around the tip then gripping with his lips more
Still on his knees, he was next offered the aromatic sense of ripened
peaches. He felt the sweet fruit against his nose and mouth pressing
with easy demand till his lips parted and his tongue began to caress
the soft tissue. Pressing more insistently, his licks made a groove in
the flesh and he nibbled at the top of the groove swallowing the sweet
juices as more ran down his jaw.
“Good, good, my darling,” came Her voice, the words shaped with a smile. “That’s the way to kiss me.”
His breaths quickened as the soft touching took on a new strength and
descended to his private parts. A low growling moan escaped his lips as
the Hands cupped his scrotal sac and fastened about the base of his
rising sex, holding his swollen length, a constricting loving grip,
restraining and sustaining.
“Until she’s ready,” he was told.
Then he was released, his head tossing upon the pillow, his breaths
quick and ragged. Yet, he lingered, lying still. “Who are you?” he
asked into the darkness.
“O my brother—you know who I am,” came the androgynous voice, “you’ve
always known since I first emerged. I’m your sexuality, your
libido, your life energy. We’ve fought one another far too long!”
Vincent’s every sense was alive, alert, reaching, straining toward the entity.
“The first time, you defeated me!” said the voice. “Yourself, just a
young boy - so strong! So determined! You sublimated me into work,
learning and protection of others. Then . . . it was . . . she
who defeated me and - by that love - am I changed, here to help you
with your skills. We are one, Vincent, we are changed by Her.”
A soft light effused throughout and Vincent recognized the face of the
Other, sitting casually in the armchair in the center of the chamber.
The face was dark, though not violent, the expression benign, as a
helper, a sibling. “You’ve come to help me?” whispered Vincent.
“Yes,” came the reply, “the way one breathes, the way one dreams.
Whether she lays you on a bed of rock, or a bed of light, she is a
fixed star. You belong together.”
Vincent lit candles beside the bed and in their light, he found himself
alone in the chamber. He dressed and groomed himself and set out for
the entrance to Catherine’s building. He was awake and ready for her.
* * *
Getting ready for the shower, Catherine sensed, more than heard,
Vincent at the balcony. The hour was very early, the first few
rose-colored streaks of dawn just visible in the eastern sky. He had
never come to her at this hour, and this was enough to alert her to the
urgency and significance of the visit.
Before he could tap upon the glass, she was there, flinging open the
balcony doors and rushing into his embrace. He held her with passion
and conviction, and she felt no doubt or fear in him.
Catherine pulled back to look up into his magnificent face. She touched
his cheek tenderly, daring to put voice to her thoughts. “Vincent
. . .” she began, “what is it? What has you so – ?”
“Catherine!” he answered, his blue eyes searching her face, his
expression intent upon her response. “I have come to . . . to love you!”
All Catherine’s hopes and all her dreams and all her fantasies came to
life in that one moment. Without forethought, she responded, “Yes!!
Love me, Vincent!!”
She was liquid in his hands, her bones melting with desire, as he
walked her backwards to the bedroom. Her dressing gown fell open to
reveal her soft heated flesh yearning, craving, everything he had for
her. He stretched her carefully across the bed, opening her garments to
expose her exquisite form, her firm breasts rising up with their ruddy
tips, her belly concave with her inhalation, her mons with its silken
swathe offering full access. He shed his own garments and poised
himself over her, beholding her beauty. Then – despite the newfound
confidence, the old worries surfaced and he hesitated.
Catherine raised herself slightly from the bed, reaching tentatively for him. “What is it, Vincent?”
His struggle was evident in his face. He asked her, “Have you a scarf or a sash . . ?”
Wordlessly, she tugged the tie from her gown and handed it to him. He
took a step back, turned away from her, and to her surprise, he knelt
down on the floor. He crossed his large hands at the wrists behind his
back, his head bowed, his voice a growling whisper as he entreated her:
“Bind me, Catherine.”
She could not stop to analyze the event, so affected was she by his
request. The combination of seeing him there, submitting to her,
realizing all his power and potential, and she still quivering with
anticipation of full intimacy compelled her to do as he asked. She
shifted to the sit on the edge of the bed and tied the terrible,
beautiful hands securely.
Vincent turned his body around toward her now; she sitting, him
kneeling, their faces close together, each could feel the other’s
breathing. She wanted to look into his eyes, but he lowered his face to
her breasts, first left then right. He placed light kisses on the top
of each then rested at her cleavage, breathing in unison with her. She
clutched his golden head to her bosom and he felt the rapid velvet
rhythm of her heart. He nuzzled her and the sensation went straight
down to her sex. Remembering his training with ripe strawberries,
Vincent began to suckle each blushing nipple with care, drawing it
between his teeth and nibbling and suckling until Catherine writhed
upon the bed, her fingers tangling his long hair. His kisses traveled
down her body, grazing her flanks, kissing the spaces between her ribs.
With a moan, Catherine fell in slow motion against the sheets, her
knees flexed, her heels resting beside her hips on the edge of the bed.
She was thus completely open to him as Vincent pressed his lips against
her womanly space. At first only breathing onto the delicate tissue
then drawing in her exotic fragrance – like blossoms on ocean water.
Next, encouraged by his earlier ethereal experience, Vincent began to
stimulate her – the way he had learned, the way he had been taught. Her
flesh was sweeter than any fruit and he sought to consume her without
harming her. She was rigid and burning beneath the gentle onslaught.
His greedy tongue was hot and wide and wonderfully textured as it
massaged her heated core. Her juices flowed freely against his licking
and he swallowed what he could, bearing down between her thighs. As she
neared the apex of her passion, her hips rising up to meet his
ministrations, Vincent nuzzled the intimate intersection more
forcefully, willing her release, worshiping her. Her cries into the
morning light excited him like nothing in his life. He lived, at this
moment and forever in his life, to please this woman. Nothing else
“Vincent!” she gasped. “I want you inside me!” Catherine’s hands
grabbed at his thick golden mane, tugging him toward her. Her body
glistened with pleasure. She reached around his waist to tear off the
satin shackle. “I want every part of you, Vincent!” she insisted.
He was lost in her now, he could refuse her nothing. He would give her
all himself. He carefully moved over her body. Gently, with his knees,
he pushed her legs apart, making a space for him to lie between. The
lethal hands he still feared he placed carefully against each of her
thighs, pressing the palms only against her skin, holding the terrible
claws away from her flesh. His swollen sex naturally found its way to
her wet, wide-open entry. She gasped with the exquisite effort of
accommodating his length to her depth, drawing him in to her self, into
her total being. He gave himself to her again and again, and over
and over again she accepted his love.