This was the feeling that he lived for. – The flow of an addicted rush, at once purposeful and helpless, carried by the blood around the body, through all the parts and to all the organs which mattered. They took each other into a world of their own devising, a temple of love in the style of the Greek Revival lost among the parkland of a country estate which had seen better days; or was it a house furnished with an eye for the vintage, full of curios and curiosities which you wanted to pick up, pictures which held the eye with their stories; or was it yet a bedroom whose wooden boards and solid furniture gave you a sense of being at sea?
Yes, today it could well be the last of these, and as the decision was made with something like telepathy, the great cabin of a sailing ship arose and delineated itself in their minds. In one corner, a hammock swung with the roll of the waves and the list of the ship, while in another a locked trunk stood, its wood seasoned by decades of sea air, and were anyone to be permitted entry to this inner sanctum, they would be strongly inclined to imagine it full of some kind of treasure or another. Built-in benches cushioned with red velvet lined the stern window, while the bed was all of a piece with the wooden walls of the cabin. The love they made in this magical room was built on passion and passions shared in literally millions of words, written and spoken, and you could not have founded it upon a stronger bedrock, no matter how the tides of emotion fluctuated and swelled and rose against it, battering the rock with undeniably magnificent displays of white spray.
But he was getting away from the nub of the feeling which was the heart of the matter; for there may as well have been no temple, no house, no bedroom, no ship’s cabin, no room of any kind or simply the most anonymous. All that mattered was the two of them, cock to cunt, heart to heart, eye to eye, mind to mind. Then ideas and images and desire and love and pure, unadulterated filth flowed between each and every part, till the red strings of fate criss-crossed between them like invisible kinbaku-bi. The bond between them was as supple as the neck of a swan, as rigid as iron, as soft as lace and as hard the toned physique of a racehorse galloping full pelt. Nothing needed grounding; their love was a hot air balloon and it would fly wherever the wind and imagination took it.
And where the softening wind set down the balloon, that was the place where they would make a life, a home, with a bedroom filled with the treasures of fantasies made real. But for now, the balloon sailed on, kept afloat by a seemingly limitless supply of flame. No matter what, it always rose over the trees whose branches threatened to snag its gondola and flying wires, and he hoped and believed it always would, until perhaps the day came when finally they could toast a gentle landing with champagne.