SexyVita
A Wanton of Words
- Joined
- Sep 28, 2007
- Posts
- 1,382
She was falling, the ground so far below that she could see the curve of the planet as it spun in the endless void, there was no sound, no wind to buffet her, because she was still outside the atmosphere, and she was naked. None of these things really bothered her for the moment, she had swooped down on the planet below a thousand times or more from as great a height, she didn’t feel the cold of the void, and she had no need to breath. More immediate things were screaming for her attention, however, and something was very, very wrong. Her back was aflame with... pain? The physical pain was excruciating, all the more because it was the first time she had experienced anything like it, but it was more than just physical pain, it was the pain of almost unendurable loss. Something had been taken from her that was so much a part of her being that she no longer knew who or what she was without it. Why could she suddenly not remember what it was? She looked at herself, or as much of herself as she could see, anyway, trying to access what was wrong. Her skin was different than she remembered. Instead of a deep flashing bronze, it was pale, sallow almost, as if something had been drained from her and it’s absence showed through from the inside.
Light flared around her as the particles of the upper atmosphere flared incandescently bright from the friction as she streaked past them, but she felt the heat of it no more than she had the cold of the void and her eyes had been formed to endure a brightness that exceeded this ten-thousandfold or more. As she continued to fall instinct made her try to angle her body to streamline her path through the atmosphere but instead of the planes of her body tilting down and forward, the pain in her back increased by a hundred. She shrieked in pain, but even her cry was ripped from her by the turbulent air as she was thrown into an uncontrolled spin, the ground and the sky doing crazy somersaults around her. She started flailing her limbs in a desperate attempt to regain control. Panic started rising in her and its taste was unfamiliar. She had always been supremely confident, sure of herself and her abilities. Not proud or arrogant, it was simply not in her nature to doubt herself. She knew her purpose and she had absolute assurance that she had been created fully capable to fulfill it. Fear of failure was new and very bitter to swallow.
She finally managed to slow her spin but the ground was much closer now and approaching with alarming rapidity. It was then she realized with a sickening shock that nothing she could do would prevent her from hitting the ground, and hitting it very, very hard. The fear finally took hold and she curled herself into a ball and began, for the first time in her ageless existence, to scream in terror. Just moments from hitting the ground she remembered what had been taken from her… My wings...
Esmée sat up in bed with a jolt. Her thin silk nightdress was drenched in sweat and plastered to her body in a way that would have left absolutely nothing to the imagination of anyone who might have been around to see. It also would have been incredibly sexy if she hadn’t just been screaming her lungs out in abject terror moments before. But Esmée was alone, not exactly by choice, but certainly by design. Not that she didn’t get plenty of offers. It was a rare day that at least someone didn’t ask her out or even outright proposition her. They didn’t even know why they did it. They just saw something in Esmée that overcame all the usual objections to approaching a stranger and asking them out, or to come home with you, or into the back alley behind the bar, or an unoccupied broom closet at work, or wherever else was convenient. And Esmée was loathe to turn them down… because it was her purpose.
But it was hard to keep a lover in your bed when three nights out of four you woke up screaming like all the demons of Hell were after you. She looked at the clock by her bed, the bright green lights showing 4:07 AM. Too early to be up, but there was no way in Hell she was going back to sleep after that dream. She got up and went downstairs to the kitchen. She put the kettle on and got out a tin of her favorite black tea, Tanzania Gold. She scooped out enough for a single cup into her infuser. The tin was nearly empty, she would have to order more. The tea was one she had found 20 years ago at a tea shop in Victoria, British Columbia, and she only ordered it from there. I wonder if the shop owners would remember me if I walked in today. Maybe… actually the chances were quite high. Esmée tended to leave an impression on people. Of course, they would probably think she was the daughter of the woman who had walked in on one of the rare, sunny days in late August, because she would look exactly the same to them now as she had then. It was one of the reasons she moved around every five to ten years. More than that and people start to notice that I don’t grow older like they do. Brand me as a witch once, shame on you. Brand me as a witch twice, shame on me. Normally, the dark humor in that thought would have made her smile, this morning it just made her feel grim.
The tea was done steeping and she took a big sip and it helped to ground her. Her throat felt raw from screaming, but the hot tea caused her no pain. There was little in this world that could harm her. She might appear human and look just as fragile as everyone else but she was not. She had been created to endure forever in the eternal realms but to be capable of crossing into the mortal realm in the same flesh and her body reflected the durability required to make that feat possible. But the last time she had made that journey was thousands of years ago, a final one-way trip. Unfit for Heaven, not deserving of Hell, they had ruled, for all that she had never given them any cause to doubt her loyalty. It was her brothers and sisters that had done that, when en mass they had joined the Morning Star’s rebellion. Now called succubi and incubi they had perverted their true purpose, to bring the healing power of love and sex to humanity. And look what sex has become in our absence, something to be hidden, to be ashamed of, to be practiced in dark rooms, under the covers, at night, with only one person for your whole life. Esmée snorted. It was never supposed to be like that. Humans were supposed to have been free to love and be loved whenever and with whomever it made them happy and joyous to be with. With us to guide them sex would have been an open and cleansing experience, bringing peace and joy. There would have been no darkness, no abuse, no such thing as infidelity or jealousy, just pleasure however you might find it. Damn the Deceiver and all of them! In her anger she inadvertently clenched her fist with such force that the teacup exploded in her hand with a loud retort like a gun going off, and supersonic pieces of porcelain escaped between her fingers to ricocheted off the hard surfaces and bury themselves in the soft ones. She sighed. I need to keep better control over myself. It might be alright here in my own house, but if I lose control out there… She left the thought unfinished, because she knew how it ended. She had lost control “out there” in the past, and it was not her that had paid the price.
She cleaned up, too rattled to attempt making more tea. She went back upstairs and showered and started getting ready for the day. She didn’t really understand all the ways her body had changed when they they took her wings, but it was obvious some quintessential part of her had gone with them. She now needed food and water and to breath air, although she could go without these much longer than any human. But she had never really tested the limits of that because part of her didn’t want to know how far she’d fallen, how close to mortal she really was. She now sweat and grew tired when she exerted herself, and she became less alert and focused if she went without sleep. She was still stronger, faster, and more dexterous than even the best humans and she was far more durable. She had, after all survived a supersonic descent through the atmosphere and a titanic impact with the ground that had leveled trees. She might be the next best thing to indestructible when it came to the mortal realm, but hitting the ground had hurt. Although she ultimately left the furrow she had dug in the earth physically unscathed, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually, she had been raw. Beings like her were not made to feel pain the way humans were. They had not been given the mental and emotional resilience humans possessed because it was not necessary to their purpose.
Perhaps that was a mistake, maybe if we’d been meant to know pain we could have been more empathetic towards humans and realized how events in the eternal realms would affect them. She flinched at how close to heretical that thought was. To accuse the Creator of making a mistake… She shuddered, placing her hands on the bathroom sink to steady herself. But what do I owe Him now? He did NOTHING when His servants cast me out of His presence just on suspicion alone! And He’s done nothing for me since! She heard a creaking sound and realized that she’d put indentations in the bathroom countertop with her clenched fingers. Oh, fuck… get it together Esmée, you’re really losing it today. She took a deep breath a tried to finish her morning routine without thinking about the Creator, the Deceiver, or any of the rest of them.
Stepping into the bathroom, Esmée stripped off the still damp nightdress and tossed it into the hamper. She still felt on edge. Tonight’s dream had been worse than normal somehow. More vivid, more intense, with the pain and fear and anguish more… more like they were when it happened for real. She unpinned her hair, which was always a process. This world was not made for people with knee-length hair, but most of the time she hated the idea of cutting it shorter. The few times that she had gotten fed up and tried, though? Well, it apparently takes more than the sharpest knives or scissors that humanity possessed at the time to cut it. She supposed that now, in this age of marvels, some way could be found, but how do explain needing a laser scalpel to cut your hair? So she put up with it. Her curls finally sprang free of the confinement into which she normally bound them and cascaded down her back like a waterfall of molten gold, covering the two large pink scars that ran along either side of her spine from just below her shoulders to the middle of her back. Her hair was probably the most inhuman thing about her appearance, because while it moved and felt like hair it looked like living gold, shiny and metallic.
Her shower was hot and the bathroom steamed up while she was in it despite the fan and an open window. Drying her hair and putting it back up took nearly a half-an-hour. By the time she was done, the mirror had cleared and she was able to see herself in it. She considered herself for a moment. Physically, her body did not appear to have changed much, except for her skin, which was now alabaster rather than bronze, and the absence of her wings, of course. Esmée’s legs were long and toned, and her abs were defined but not chiseled. Her hips flared gracefully from her thighs and narrowed again at her waist, which was not waspish, but still well-defined. Her breasts were large without being outlandish, somehow both firm enough not to sag, yet soft and yielding to the touch, topped by pale pink nipples. Her face was smooth and unlined with a tiny hint of blush at her cheeks. Her lips were plump and naturally pink, so it looked like she was wearing pink lipstick if she added a bit of gloss over them. There was only one thing that marred her youthful seeming beauty, other than the two ugly scars on her back, and that was her eyes. Not that her eyes were not beautiful, a perfect cerulean blue like the skies she used to exult in flying across, but in them was pain, and loss, anguish that nearly ten-thousand years on Earth had not diminished. Finally Esmée had to look away from her own reflection. I can’t even bear this pain once, let alone to have it reflected back at me.
She dressed quickly in her running gear and by 5:00 AM she was out the door and starting her run. No one in her neighborhood was out yet, but Esmée was fine with that, she was in no mood to talk to her neighbors anyway. Some days it was hard to act normal. By 6:00 she was back in the shower, and by 6:30 she was out the door again, this time wearing a slate gray skirt suit that had been custom tailored her fit her. The skirt conformed to the shape of her hips and ass and fell just mid way down her thighs, showing off her long legs. The jacket narrowed at the waist and then flared out over her hips by way of several pleats that gave the jacket a little extra something, turning functional into cute and a bit sexy. Underneath she had a white silk blouse with a deep v-neck that showed off a moderate amount of cleavage. Resting just above her breasts was a large teardrop-shaped sapphire almost the same color as her eyes from which extended two intricately detailed silver wings. Sometimes it brought tears to her eyes to look at it, but when she’d seen it at a jewelers and he’d told her it was a one-of-kind, custom piece, she knew it had been meant for her, and had to buy it.
Being out so early she decided to stop for breakfast at a little sidewalk cafe that she’d been wanting to try ever since she’d gone past it on her morning run several weeks ago. The smells coming from the place had been almost Heavenly, especially since they baked their own baguettes and croissants on site. Esmée, who had seen most of the world at one time or another, was pleasantly surprised to find them the best she could ever recall having outside of France or Quebec. At least if you have to eat, you should eat well whenever possible.
It was still way too early for her to be at the office, so she savored her tea, lingered sensually over her croissants, and watched people move through the streets on their way to early jobs, or appointments, or whatever had roused them from bed this early. She tried to imagine how each person might describe her if they took a moment to look, for each one would see her differently, and no two would agree. Some would say she was tall, others short, some thin, or athletic or voluptuous, blond, brunette, redhead, young, old… each would see what they wanted to see, or perhaps what they needed to see. Some would be reminded of old lovers, or those they wish had been lovers. If they did, they would know that she was not them, but just enough like them to give them a smile, or more rarely a last time or second chance. The weirdest thing about it was that the effect somehow managed to survive modern technology as well, so a picture of her would look to a person just like they saw her in person. Weird, but occasionally useful. I wonder if that is the reason I get so little back from helping them, none of them see me... Such dark thoughts this morning. She shook her head as if to clear it, dislodging several strands of hair from her French twist which immediately sprang into miniature ringlets. She didn’t know why she was so rattled this morning. It was more than the dream. It was as if she could sense something coming, something big, portentous. But she had absolutely no idea what it was...
Light flared around her as the particles of the upper atmosphere flared incandescently bright from the friction as she streaked past them, but she felt the heat of it no more than she had the cold of the void and her eyes had been formed to endure a brightness that exceeded this ten-thousandfold or more. As she continued to fall instinct made her try to angle her body to streamline her path through the atmosphere but instead of the planes of her body tilting down and forward, the pain in her back increased by a hundred. She shrieked in pain, but even her cry was ripped from her by the turbulent air as she was thrown into an uncontrolled spin, the ground and the sky doing crazy somersaults around her. She started flailing her limbs in a desperate attempt to regain control. Panic started rising in her and its taste was unfamiliar. She had always been supremely confident, sure of herself and her abilities. Not proud or arrogant, it was simply not in her nature to doubt herself. She knew her purpose and she had absolute assurance that she had been created fully capable to fulfill it. Fear of failure was new and very bitter to swallow.
She finally managed to slow her spin but the ground was much closer now and approaching with alarming rapidity. It was then she realized with a sickening shock that nothing she could do would prevent her from hitting the ground, and hitting it very, very hard. The fear finally took hold and she curled herself into a ball and began, for the first time in her ageless existence, to scream in terror. Just moments from hitting the ground she remembered what had been taken from her… My wings...
Esmée sat up in bed with a jolt. Her thin silk nightdress was drenched in sweat and plastered to her body in a way that would have left absolutely nothing to the imagination of anyone who might have been around to see. It also would have been incredibly sexy if she hadn’t just been screaming her lungs out in abject terror moments before. But Esmée was alone, not exactly by choice, but certainly by design. Not that she didn’t get plenty of offers. It was a rare day that at least someone didn’t ask her out or even outright proposition her. They didn’t even know why they did it. They just saw something in Esmée that overcame all the usual objections to approaching a stranger and asking them out, or to come home with you, or into the back alley behind the bar, or an unoccupied broom closet at work, or wherever else was convenient. And Esmée was loathe to turn them down… because it was her purpose.
But it was hard to keep a lover in your bed when three nights out of four you woke up screaming like all the demons of Hell were after you. She looked at the clock by her bed, the bright green lights showing 4:07 AM. Too early to be up, but there was no way in Hell she was going back to sleep after that dream. She got up and went downstairs to the kitchen. She put the kettle on and got out a tin of her favorite black tea, Tanzania Gold. She scooped out enough for a single cup into her infuser. The tin was nearly empty, she would have to order more. The tea was one she had found 20 years ago at a tea shop in Victoria, British Columbia, and she only ordered it from there. I wonder if the shop owners would remember me if I walked in today. Maybe… actually the chances were quite high. Esmée tended to leave an impression on people. Of course, they would probably think she was the daughter of the woman who had walked in on one of the rare, sunny days in late August, because she would look exactly the same to them now as she had then. It was one of the reasons she moved around every five to ten years. More than that and people start to notice that I don’t grow older like they do. Brand me as a witch once, shame on you. Brand me as a witch twice, shame on me. Normally, the dark humor in that thought would have made her smile, this morning it just made her feel grim.
The tea was done steeping and she took a big sip and it helped to ground her. Her throat felt raw from screaming, but the hot tea caused her no pain. There was little in this world that could harm her. She might appear human and look just as fragile as everyone else but she was not. She had been created to endure forever in the eternal realms but to be capable of crossing into the mortal realm in the same flesh and her body reflected the durability required to make that feat possible. But the last time she had made that journey was thousands of years ago, a final one-way trip. Unfit for Heaven, not deserving of Hell, they had ruled, for all that she had never given them any cause to doubt her loyalty. It was her brothers and sisters that had done that, when en mass they had joined the Morning Star’s rebellion. Now called succubi and incubi they had perverted their true purpose, to bring the healing power of love and sex to humanity. And look what sex has become in our absence, something to be hidden, to be ashamed of, to be practiced in dark rooms, under the covers, at night, with only one person for your whole life. Esmée snorted. It was never supposed to be like that. Humans were supposed to have been free to love and be loved whenever and with whomever it made them happy and joyous to be with. With us to guide them sex would have been an open and cleansing experience, bringing peace and joy. There would have been no darkness, no abuse, no such thing as infidelity or jealousy, just pleasure however you might find it. Damn the Deceiver and all of them! In her anger she inadvertently clenched her fist with such force that the teacup exploded in her hand with a loud retort like a gun going off, and supersonic pieces of porcelain escaped between her fingers to ricocheted off the hard surfaces and bury themselves in the soft ones. She sighed. I need to keep better control over myself. It might be alright here in my own house, but if I lose control out there… She left the thought unfinished, because she knew how it ended. She had lost control “out there” in the past, and it was not her that had paid the price.
She cleaned up, too rattled to attempt making more tea. She went back upstairs and showered and started getting ready for the day. She didn’t really understand all the ways her body had changed when they they took her wings, but it was obvious some quintessential part of her had gone with them. She now needed food and water and to breath air, although she could go without these much longer than any human. But she had never really tested the limits of that because part of her didn’t want to know how far she’d fallen, how close to mortal she really was. She now sweat and grew tired when she exerted herself, and she became less alert and focused if she went without sleep. She was still stronger, faster, and more dexterous than even the best humans and she was far more durable. She had, after all survived a supersonic descent through the atmosphere and a titanic impact with the ground that had leveled trees. She might be the next best thing to indestructible when it came to the mortal realm, but hitting the ground had hurt. Although she ultimately left the furrow she had dug in the earth physically unscathed, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually, she had been raw. Beings like her were not made to feel pain the way humans were. They had not been given the mental and emotional resilience humans possessed because it was not necessary to their purpose.
Perhaps that was a mistake, maybe if we’d been meant to know pain we could have been more empathetic towards humans and realized how events in the eternal realms would affect them. She flinched at how close to heretical that thought was. To accuse the Creator of making a mistake… She shuddered, placing her hands on the bathroom sink to steady herself. But what do I owe Him now? He did NOTHING when His servants cast me out of His presence just on suspicion alone! And He’s done nothing for me since! She heard a creaking sound and realized that she’d put indentations in the bathroom countertop with her clenched fingers. Oh, fuck… get it together Esmée, you’re really losing it today. She took a deep breath a tried to finish her morning routine without thinking about the Creator, the Deceiver, or any of the rest of them.
Stepping into the bathroom, Esmée stripped off the still damp nightdress and tossed it into the hamper. She still felt on edge. Tonight’s dream had been worse than normal somehow. More vivid, more intense, with the pain and fear and anguish more… more like they were when it happened for real. She unpinned her hair, which was always a process. This world was not made for people with knee-length hair, but most of the time she hated the idea of cutting it shorter. The few times that she had gotten fed up and tried, though? Well, it apparently takes more than the sharpest knives or scissors that humanity possessed at the time to cut it. She supposed that now, in this age of marvels, some way could be found, but how do explain needing a laser scalpel to cut your hair? So she put up with it. Her curls finally sprang free of the confinement into which she normally bound them and cascaded down her back like a waterfall of molten gold, covering the two large pink scars that ran along either side of her spine from just below her shoulders to the middle of her back. Her hair was probably the most inhuman thing about her appearance, because while it moved and felt like hair it looked like living gold, shiny and metallic.
Her shower was hot and the bathroom steamed up while she was in it despite the fan and an open window. Drying her hair and putting it back up took nearly a half-an-hour. By the time she was done, the mirror had cleared and she was able to see herself in it. She considered herself for a moment. Physically, her body did not appear to have changed much, except for her skin, which was now alabaster rather than bronze, and the absence of her wings, of course. Esmée’s legs were long and toned, and her abs were defined but not chiseled. Her hips flared gracefully from her thighs and narrowed again at her waist, which was not waspish, but still well-defined. Her breasts were large without being outlandish, somehow both firm enough not to sag, yet soft and yielding to the touch, topped by pale pink nipples. Her face was smooth and unlined with a tiny hint of blush at her cheeks. Her lips were plump and naturally pink, so it looked like she was wearing pink lipstick if she added a bit of gloss over them. There was only one thing that marred her youthful seeming beauty, other than the two ugly scars on her back, and that was her eyes. Not that her eyes were not beautiful, a perfect cerulean blue like the skies she used to exult in flying across, but in them was pain, and loss, anguish that nearly ten-thousand years on Earth had not diminished. Finally Esmée had to look away from her own reflection. I can’t even bear this pain once, let alone to have it reflected back at me.
She dressed quickly in her running gear and by 5:00 AM she was out the door and starting her run. No one in her neighborhood was out yet, but Esmée was fine with that, she was in no mood to talk to her neighbors anyway. Some days it was hard to act normal. By 6:00 she was back in the shower, and by 6:30 she was out the door again, this time wearing a slate gray skirt suit that had been custom tailored her fit her. The skirt conformed to the shape of her hips and ass and fell just mid way down her thighs, showing off her long legs. The jacket narrowed at the waist and then flared out over her hips by way of several pleats that gave the jacket a little extra something, turning functional into cute and a bit sexy. Underneath she had a white silk blouse with a deep v-neck that showed off a moderate amount of cleavage. Resting just above her breasts was a large teardrop-shaped sapphire almost the same color as her eyes from which extended two intricately detailed silver wings. Sometimes it brought tears to her eyes to look at it, but when she’d seen it at a jewelers and he’d told her it was a one-of-kind, custom piece, she knew it had been meant for her, and had to buy it.
Being out so early she decided to stop for breakfast at a little sidewalk cafe that she’d been wanting to try ever since she’d gone past it on her morning run several weeks ago. The smells coming from the place had been almost Heavenly, especially since they baked their own baguettes and croissants on site. Esmée, who had seen most of the world at one time or another, was pleasantly surprised to find them the best she could ever recall having outside of France or Quebec. At least if you have to eat, you should eat well whenever possible.
It was still way too early for her to be at the office, so she savored her tea, lingered sensually over her croissants, and watched people move through the streets on their way to early jobs, or appointments, or whatever had roused them from bed this early. She tried to imagine how each person might describe her if they took a moment to look, for each one would see her differently, and no two would agree. Some would say she was tall, others short, some thin, or athletic or voluptuous, blond, brunette, redhead, young, old… each would see what they wanted to see, or perhaps what they needed to see. Some would be reminded of old lovers, or those they wish had been lovers. If they did, they would know that she was not them, but just enough like them to give them a smile, or more rarely a last time or second chance. The weirdest thing about it was that the effect somehow managed to survive modern technology as well, so a picture of her would look to a person just like they saw her in person. Weird, but occasionally useful. I wonder if that is the reason I get so little back from helping them, none of them see me... Such dark thoughts this morning. She shook her head as if to clear it, dislodging several strands of hair from her French twist which immediately sprang into miniature ringlets. She didn’t know why she was so rattled this morning. It was more than the dream. It was as if she could sense something coming, something big, portentous. But she had absolutely no idea what it was...
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