The Story of V: An Erotic Voyage
by Valjean

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 secure.

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 forcefully.

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 mattered.

“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.