Adieu, Bonjour Read online

  Adieu, Bonjour

  By

  Desiree Erotique

  This collection is dedicated to the reader.

  "If you try to please audiences, uncritically accepting their tastes,

  it can only mean that you have no respect for them: that you simply want to collect their money."

  ~ Andrei Tarkovsky

  “There was a time when Romance was a quest set in beautiful and unbridled lands, where the characters’ greatest succor came in the sublime awareness of the moment’s sensations and the will to succeed without heed to danger, conflict, conformity or the taboo. Today a Romance is a narrowly structured tale set against a background of danger and conflict that, conformingly, steers clear of all traces of the taboo.

  And of these two, I believe the former more closely describes the adventure called love.”

  ~ Desiree Erotique, 2005, Appalachian Aspiring Writers Festival

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Adieu, Bonjour by Desiree Erotique

  Red Rose Publishing

  Copyright© 2007 Desiree Erotique

  ISBN: 978-1-60435-139-2

  ISBN: 1-60435-139-X

  Cover Artist: Desiree Erotique

  Editor: Lea Schizas

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. Due to copyright laws you cannot trade, sell or give any ebooks away.

  Red Rose Publishing

  www.redrosepublishing.com

  Forestport, NY 13338

  Adieu, Bonjour

  By

  Desiree Erotique

  Purple Prosey

  by

  Desiree Erotique©2008

  For Claudia, Diana, Miriam and Wendi

  Before her timid eyes he was,

  tall and dark and brave

  and in the twilight imagery

  she beheld his noble stave;

  lofty, hard and scarlet,

  while his smoldering eyes

  beheld her wide-eyed passion

  so long and cruelly denied.

  His limbs she stroked,

  and her mouth he fed,

  mutual passion no purer

  since Cupid and Psyche had wed.

  She turned about to reach the earth,

  and raised her silky sex,

  freely offered to this god of wood

  with no chaste or coy pretext.

  With fecund pagan moan

  an unashamed deep trill,

  she begged for his possession

  that her need be fulfilled.

  His hands lay upon her ass

  and her resilient flesh he grasped;

  between her thighs his towering staff

  t’was like a marble towering asp.

  “Prepare thyself, my pretty maid,”

  his husky voice beckoned;

  and with fluttering heart

  her steamy juices seconded.

  Into her taut, moist nether slit

  the towering staff did tuck.

  She was a warm and trembling angel;

  a flower of heaven to

  “Ahem.”

  Marie looked up from the keyboard. Justin had slinked up behind her shoulder, and stood there ogling his watch. She bristled; it was her coffee break –technically, all twenty minutes of it. But Justin was her boss’s lover besides being the office manager. Marie knew if Justin had had his way, Mr. Folger –executive editor and owner of the publishing house- would have dismissed her just like he’d dismissed the rest of the females on staff since Justin had been hired six months before.

  Luckily for Marie, she had what Mr. Folger called the knack for versatile terminology. In other words, she was the only one on the editorial staff who consistently knew how to reword the hackneyed sexual jargon that usually turned up in the first drafts. Even, and sometimes more so, her skills were called in for their bestselling writers. And both Mr. Folger and Marie knew this knack had saved their books from the scathing critique of many an astute reviewer.

  Big difference it made to her pay check, of course.

  “You got those final edits done yet?” Justin whined. “I’d like to head out of here by three. Got a call from the dealer; my Chabriolet arrived.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Marie muttered. Mr. Folger had said what she wrote in her spare time on this computer was her own business. But she also knew from experience Justin’s penchant for making drama at any opportunity. It was tiresome, to say the least.

  Marie hit the minimize button. The word document shrunk, and hid modestly down in the corner of the monitor. Suppressing a sigh, she maximized the window for the manuscript she was editing. The line edit draft for The Lumber Jack’s Hammer Boy pounced back up on the screen.

  Justin yawned and ambled back to his own desk. In the snide tone Marie had come to know and hate, he said, “You realize that crap you pen will never appeal to today’s erotica readers.”

  “You mean today’s erotica buyers?” Marie quipped, “Like me?”

  Justin grunted, and sitting down, sipped on the cup of herbal tea he seemed to survive on. Let the skinny little snot stew, Marie told herself. Frankly, she couldn’t wait until this particular assignment was finished. Her eyes skimmed over the manuscript she’d been working on. She sighed. How one author could recapitulate a single-style “fuck” scenario seven times in one novel was beyond her. It was, she decided, the actual wording of the rehash more than the repetitious sex that most frayed her nerves.

  Thank god, she thought, this is the last damned chapter.

  Before trying to take her break Marie had found the word suck used ten times on this current page. Cunt and swallow, as she recalled had been used seven times each. And hot, well, ok, only three. She’d already worked on the suck issue, but for certainty, she now hit the Find option once again. No, she’d been wrong; the author had used cunt a grand, strutting total of eight times.

  Marie shook her head and reached for the Thesaurus beside the monitor.

  The End

  The Seraph’s Last Kiss

  by

  Desiree Erotique©2008

  I descended through the veil and entered alighted inside a ward at the Baltimore hospital. Despair and fear clung to the air here where dying mortals prepared to meet judgment, clutching to tenets about the iniquities of the material plane. Theirs was a realm at once credited as creation of Deity and the wasteland of material deceit and the thing they called sin.

  In this hopeless place was my precious Lucid One. He lay on a cot in a stall curtained by starched linen sheet. A physician, dressed in a surgical overcoat, stood nearby. The man glanced over a ledger, but I perceived his impatience.

  At home waited a warm dinner and cigars, and hopefully the mail carrier had left the letter of acceptance into the prestigious hospital in New York he’d been waiting for. This man was not concerned with the patient; only that this late round intruded on these other concerns. My love groaned from behind the curtain.

  Piqued, I strode past this physician and, using deliberate material manifestation, threw the curtain aside to proceed. The doctor paused and gaped at the stirred fabric. His mortal eyes perceived nothing except the pallid man curled on his side upon the cot. The physician’s ration convinced that he’d only imagined having closed the curtain. He did not meet the eyes of the startled patient; nor did he care how curtly he snatched the curtain closed again. Far too long, he mused, had he been stuck waiting here wi
th this failed journalist simply because the man’s family physician had not yet arrived.

  Disregarding him, I beamed at my Lucid One. He managed to sit up on a forearm, and his large hazel eyes shone with momentary disbelief. Through the ravages of illness and vortex of emotions I saw that he was more dazzled now by my naked radiance than when, as a mere child, he had first perceived me.

  No one believed his claims that an angel abided near, and he had been too indifferent of opinion then to care. I was the confirmation of the perceptions at command with his rare human perceptions: that life in this world and all its sufferings was only a lie; and that there was nothing in heaven that couldn’t be found in this plane if one would awaken from the nightmare that was mortality for those who had simply chosen to sleep and accepted strange slumbering experiences as reality.

  These poor souls had forgotten true awareness; but my Lucid One had been able to see through these deceitful images even before he could walk. He observed his mother in company of the angels of pleasure which she’d accepted just after her mortal death. She was one of the truly liberated; consigned neither to conceptions of karmic rebirth nor expectations of a senseless Nirvana, and she had shed the notion embraced during her lifetime that she was only a slave to some judgmental Deity. She had come to dwell with the angels of the true Eternal, such as myself; who know that the divine manifests in carnal delights and the cleaving of affections.

  The lingering stench of melancholy chilled in his pores. I came forward and he shuddered as I brushed a dark lock from his brow. It was fear, but mingled with shame and the frailest strain of hope. His human body was recovering from this bout, but it was the possibility of recovery that plagued him.

  I knew that unconsciously, all he truly wanted was to suffer for losing the young bride he’d so passionately loved. His bride who had surpassed his love for me and for a time had given him something to dwell upon besides the adventure of flouting, through his literary endeavors, the human capacity for cruelty. But with her death his lucid reason had descended into drink.

  Once her mortal body had been buried and her lips had become only a rueful memory, he’d spurned all the truths known in his. Ever since he had mourned alone –except for his brooding fictional torturers and raven.

  I sat on the mattress and reproached, “You are foolish to blame yourself. Your beloved cannot be rescued from illusory afterlife by anyone wallowing in the mortal delusion.”

  His brow creased irritably. “Why should my mind or soul matter to you who have dwelt with the divine forever? You, who abandoned me because I loved her?”

  I touched his hand and felt his body tense. Regret flowed through him like a deluge; and there, too, I felt a blind sense of having been deserted. This was regrettable, for he had known enough abandonment. His foster father, who should have loved him, had only adopted him to have an heir; but having at last sired his own natural children, then turned his back on my Love.

  It is against my nature to abide where my company made anyone uncomfortable. This I explained the last time I’d seen him; and at the time, he was so excited with the impending wedding that he’d not protested. His kiss had been cool then, and I’d supposed that was only proper considering the circumstances. When he’d asked if I were jealous of his beautiful bride I could not lie. At my confession he’d said I shouldn’t be for he would love me always as I was like the sister he’d never had.

  Sister? I, who had been his first lover; and who had taught him all the pleasurable methods of physical love? I, who had lain in his bed and memorized to heart his dark and gothic prose and listened to his macabre tales with utter fascination. Only his angel, to whom he had confided every last detail over his foster father’s rejection, and knew the depth and intricacies of the painful facets the man’s rejection had inspired?

  “You know I did not abandon you,” I answered. “Your chosen would not have accepted my presence, even if she’d had the capacity to see me.”

  Anguish contorted his face. “I failed to lift her eyes through the veil. She could have walked with me into your blithe realm and said farewell to this delusion forever. She is bound now to the judgmental fate of the ignorant. But equity shall be hers, at least this I can give.”

  “Equity?” I reprimanded, “By suffering in this realm where everlasting sorrow is the only dream within the dream?”

  His eyes grew moist, and his voice quivered with desperation. “I begged you to come sooner! I prayed for some mercy to illuminate these horrors. But you ignored me so long, haughty angel.”

  I drew the coverlet away to appraise his half-naked body. Despite his weakened state he was still shapely and beautiful. The delusion of age had not stolen his virility. Desire made my aura glow wanton gold and pink. I touched one of his nipples and pinched it tenderly until a healthy dusky color surfaced. The other one I aroused the same. He murmured and grasped my breasts most reverently. As his hands skimmed over my ethereal skin I felt his reluctance. Even now he thought of her. I ignored this, and reaching for his trousers, freed the buttons. His cock was warm and growing stiff.

  Onto the mattress I kneeled and taking the root of his cock, licked the orb of it. He moaned and his hand delved into the golden pelt between my thighs. He traced my fount. My clit pounded, and I nursed the length of his cock.

  The taste of him was an ambrosia sorely missed. My mouth plunged back and forth as I suckled. I relished the feel of the throbbing head plummeting over my lips and thrusting against the back of my throat. His fingers delved into my pussy, and fucked me roughly this way, and rubbed my clit with his thumb. I came with an explosion of sensation.

  “Lie down,” he pleaded huskily. “I want to be inside you one last time!”

  He ravished my throat with kisses, so that my body wracked with sensation as he penetrated me. His heart beat hale and his hips worked hard. With great, possessive strides he fucked me, and pussy again riveted with sensation. And when he came his moan was a feral timbre, more beautiful than the most dulcet note.

  The vigorous hues had returned to his skin. Contented, I held his head upon my breast and kissed his sweat gilded brow. “See? No one noticed our pleasing embrace. We transcended this plane. Liberation is at hand; just turn your back on the delusion. You still possess the lucidity to do this, and to find your beloved and reveal the truth in that sterile heaven she slumbers in.”

  His smile was tender and he delivered several kisses to my flushed breasts.

  “Yes, my friend. I will. But I have one last task to see through.”

  The old lucidity glinted in his eyes. He said mischievously, “I will not leave this nightmare the way the sleepers expect.”

  As I wondered at his scheme he grew sober a moment, and brushed a hand through the vast waves of my hair. “Afterward I go to her, and will not flag until I’ve awakened her to the eternal bliss. I hope you will forgive me, old friend.”

  I did not voice the envy that panged in my breast. It was possible, that just as he, I could find my own soul’s mate.

  For a time we lay together, listening to the whispers of the heavenly host Who encouraged him to come quickly. At length, as no farewells are needed amongst Us, I imparted one last kiss upon his lips. Out of the mortal domain I passed then, and observed the mystery he set into motion for the coming generations of detectives to analyze.

  It played out by his gathering into his countenance the symptoms of various human illnesses and maladies. When his physician arrived his shell was in the throes of suffering. As his last mortal breath was exhaled the hearsay commenced.

  To this day intrigued historians argue the final cause of his death, and probe the circumstances surrounding those last days before he was found unconscious in the streets. This cause of death was the last mystery he gave the world, and his greatest piece of fiction.

  He is with her now, coaxing her to accept the deception that is the intimidating eternal reward her sleeping soul conjures. His adoring voice encourages, and he compels with kisses a
nd pleasing touches. I trust someday she will awaken.

  Into the true forevermore, with all its constant pleasures, shall they be together. The sepulcher door will break, and the refrains of their passion shall sound throughout the span of time and space.

  Often I reflect on the poem, that one which praises his Virginia’s virtues and addresses my jealousy. This bittersweet dirge brings affectionate memories of he who was earthbound a time, and who penned, during his earthly dalliance and even despite his temporary vulnerability, challenges to the delusion. Whenever a voice recites it or any mind tracks its doleful rhyme, our nature is flaunted in the faces of all the abstemious false gods. Perhaps, someday, these useless delusions shall all mortals realize and they shall gather as one and destroy the sepulcher that incarcerates them all.

  The End

  Nocturnique

  By

  Desiree Erotique©2008

  Shawn would have liked to have watched the rest of the Animal Planet documentary, but Hillary had already ran the dishwasher, fed the dog and locked the doors, and now returned to the den doorway.

  She was dressed in an angel-print flannel nightgown and her short brown hair nearly dry from her nightly shower. Glancing at her, Shawn sat up straight on the sofa and out of sheer habit, reached for the remote control and pushed the on/off button.

  Before the television screen had even dimmed Hillary reached in and turned off the overhead switch on the wall. Shawn looked over at her again, and she offered a smile that looked affectionate and warm in the soft glow of light from the hallway behind her.

  It almost softened the pragmatic aura that made her look older than her twenty-four years. His heart pumped a little harder at the prospect that, just maybe, the smile was an indication she was receptive to some physical affection, too.