For Alei …
Have you ever heard a tune that never seems to leave you? A series of notes, perhaps, that tug upon a memory, a moment, an expression of how the universe—or, perhaps more accurately, the Goddess herself—works incomparable magic? Sometimes that tune never seems to leave, remaining within one’s thoughts, popping up from time to time unexpectedly. One might be sitting on a bench, looking off into infinity as the world moves at its own speed, beat and time. One might be thinking about when one first heard that tune.
Closing one’s eyes, one would be—not might be—able to see that moment, so long ago, when a certain ebon-haired woman in red was playing, her fingers dancing upon a piano in the middle of a room, engrossed in the music coming from her hands. One would be able to see a certain honey-blonde in blue paused, across the room, listening to the scattered notes, her eyes fixed from afar upon the woman in red, listening to the tune, feeling the notes somehow dancing over her skin, the sensation of having heard the music before, in a dream, somehow so dearly familiar and yet so new.
The next notes bring a thought of the blue-clad vision coming closer to the one in red, remembering her tongue barely licking against soft pink lips. She hesitated, knowing who the one creating the music was; being held back, afraid of what might be next; thinking, or rather fearing, the woman with so-green eyes might never turn her attention away from the music playing from her fingertips.
The tune never seems to leave, remaining with the sultry musician’s thoughts, always there, whispering, reminding of the moment never forgotten. She might be sitting on a bench, her fingers tracing lightly in the air. Not to make notes rise, but enough that, from time to time, she recognizes the movements, the tune that would come, if she’d only press a little harder upon them. She thinks about the first moment her pen had touched paper, the first note drawn onto the page. That moment never left her thoughts, always there at the edges of her consciousness, whispering that the stanzas were waiting for the moment to be revisited. She remembers being on the bench of the piano she cherishes, hands paused over the keys, waiting to put what was on paper to full voice, to be shared, to be offered as a glimpse into her own soul; to be offered to the soul that could hear the notes, as well. She remembers the red dress, remembers being positioned to perform her work so that she couldn’t see who entered the room, so that she never knew if, perchance, there would be anyone listening to her scattered offering.
She’d felt eyes upon her, heard the sound of heels clicking upon the polished wood floor, then stopping. Somehow a lock of her wild ebon hair shifted, as if a hand was brushing it back into place. She’d felt fingertips against the nape of her neck, and she had just managed to hold her performance together as she felt the tingle of soft lips against her skin.
With each note, she rehearsed the hope—not expressed in words, but in the music—that the listener might come a little closer, bring herself into view. She wondered about the one watching, aching to imagine her eyes, lips, hair, how her voice would sound; desperate to find shared wonder in the moment shared, the song given, and the hope of what could be. She was more than willing to turn away from the keys, give herself to the one that was pausing, waiting, afar yet tantalizingly near.
The tune never leaves, for the piano remembers each and every note, the highest register and the deepest bass. The player had embossed within the keys her music, the strings vibrated their frequencies into space and time, calling upon the one that played and the one that listened. The room held the symphony for two within its walls, the floor, the door, the very atmosphere of the space in which the two souls coupled in the music, waited. The piano kept calling, the tune whispering, willing from time and space that they return, to bring the music once more. The room simply was, wherever it needed to be, wherever these two hearts met; for, being created by Goddess herself, it simply was.
During that first performance, the room had watched as the soul in red touched the keys, brought her music to life, expressed the depths of who she was. The soul in blue had watched, listening, in doubt that the music she heard could possibly be what it seemed to be. The love, the hope, the compassion, the promise, the overwhelming need in both was plain, even if each thought that no one could see. The moment when the tune ended, the keys stilled, and the so-green eyes met those that were a piercing blue-green was a moment hoped for, prayed for. A blush was met with a smile. The first words spoken were hesitant, unsure. The answer was warm, open, accepting. A finger twirled a lock of honey-blonde hair, another tapped cherry-red lips in reply. The music echoed within them both, singing of what could be. The one in red offered a place at the bench with her; there was enough room for two. The one in blue demurred, considering herself all thumbs at such things. But fingers entwined, a smile was given, and a promise that there was music to be made brought the blue to be seated with the red. The moment was a bit awkward, if they were both, to be truthful, unsure of where things would go, what the future held, save that the piano waited for them both.
Her halo turned a bit orange as red-tipped fingers lightly closed about pink-tipped ones, A look passed between them, as did a little spark and a shiver. The blush deepened as soft, red lips kissed a pink-tipped index finger before placing that finger over the keys. The beat was simple enough, the angel found: just tapping one key, over and over again, at a steady pace. The piano sang out the note in time with her touch; a feeble little note, she thought, compared to the music she’d heard before.
So green-eyes never turned away, and a soft whisper of encouragement came from red lips while a light scent of cherry flavored the air. A halo turned a little more orange as a long, red tail nestled comfortably about hips adorned with shimmering blue. Wings of white shivered, fluttered, drawing a bit wider, one wing draping over her red-clad companion on the bench, nestling in a little bit closer as the single note continued. The beat of one finger was met by a red- tipped finger playing in time, repeating over and over. The rhythm seemed familiar, almost like it had been there always. Light hair found a shoulder to be draped over, the nestling of two bodies being as one, two heartbeats in sync, never wavering, in time with the music the two played—the music of souls entwined, embracing one another, finding the moment that was what each had always needed.
The music returned suddenly in full voice, the notes rich and complex in their passion and desire, expressing the aching pleasure of being wanted and needed, singing desire for being who they were and nothing more. Neither looked up; there was no surprise in the music’s voice. The heartbeat of love shared, love open and desired, was with them both for always.
The piano performed for the players now. Fingers once laid upon keys found skin to caress. Red heels rubbed against clear heels. Legs twined together as an explosion of goosebumps brought gasps of love and passion to mix with the music of the spheres. Red lips kissed against tanned warm skin. A lick of tongue brought a whine of need. Pink lips moaning in delight mixed with a pout of desire to return the love given as received and so much more. Warm breath tickled against the angel’s ear, whispering, making her gasp and squirm. Soft pink tongues found themselves entwined as two bodies continued melding together. The room was lit by the glow of an orange halo aflame in pleasure and red horns as bright as the sun, a scene as irresistible as the intoxicating music the two created—and kept creating—together.
It became a tune that never left either of them: the music of unashamed desire between two lovers met at the piano of passion’s joy …
((You can find an image of Tera and Alei here: http://succubus.net/wiki/images/3/33/TeraandAlei.jpg ))
The Realm is the creation of TeraS, also known as TeraSuccubi, the owner of Succubus.net, who is the owner of all copyrights to this literary universe. All characters, places and stories that are written by her are not public domain and may not be used without her express written authorization.