Lords of Rainbow

by Vera Nazarian

  “I will touch you only where you want,” he said, leaning from behind her. “I will do nothing that will alarm you, and it will be very slow. I promise. But you must let me touch you, and remove your clothing. I will stand like this, behind you, so you need not be embarrassed, you need not face me.”

  “All right,” she whispered, and stiffened, as though someone was about to start pulling her teeth.

  “Now then,” he said, stepping away from her suddenly, with superficial matter-of-factness. “This is what we’ll do. First, let me take care of this—”

  He moved away from her, and walked across the room, along the perimeter of the pool, to a small armoire chest, and removed a petite box of delicate sandalwood. As he opened the box, Ranhé could see it was filled with dark small crystals, nearly in powder form. He reached in delicately with his forefinger and thumb, and plucked a tiny handful of crystals. He stretched out his palm to her, upon which they sparkled, ebony and mauve.

  “Do you know what this is?” he asked, across the room.

  “Yes . . . I think I do. I’m inexperienced, not daft.”

  He could not help but grin at her pert reply, which meant that her fear was lessening. Besides, he could see that her eyes were subtly returning to his nude chest, his back, and her glance definitely noted his marvelous mane of hair, ah-so-lustrous in the glow of the orb.

  And so he took the crystals in his hand, and he approached the pool and scattered the powder onto the warm water. As the ebony crystals wafted down upon the surface, they burst into a mother-of-pearl shimmer, a white foam, and then were dissolved. With their dissolving, came a light scent, somewhat astringent, but not too unpleasant. This substance, mixed with the water, would guarantee that there would be no conception. . . .

  And then he was again at her side, while a light sweet smile animated his features, widened his deceptively slitted eyes so she could see at last their silver magnetic pallor.

  “Come, sit here on the bed,” he said. “No, it’s not what you think. I merely want to remove your boots.”

  “No thank you, I can manage myself—” she began, but he interrupted.

  “I am sure you can. But, I insist. I can make it much more pleasant for you, and will be your happy valet.”

  She watched him out of her clear eyes. How strange, he had not noticed how beautiful those eyes were, how unexpectedly beautiful . . . Maybe he hadn’t noticed because previously he had seen her only from afar, and her gaze was too veiled and too fluid to stay in one place.

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” she said, “I have—smelly feet.”

  At which he laughed. He just couldn’t help himself. And because his deep voice rang so infectiously, she smiled also, the beginning of a little tentative smile, a pursing of the lips, as though she was trying to hold it back.

  Thus, still laughing, he had her sit down on the bouncy softness of the great bed, and began to pull at her booted foot, while she attempted to hold on to the bedding, made suddenly helpless by the frivolity, the nature of the moment.

  The boots were off, one by one, and he made a mock-face, saying, “Well, I suppose I have not expired yet, so your feet are bearable.”

  “I am sorry . . .” she whispered. And then added, her fragile smile leaving her features, “I don’t take care of myself like other women you might know . . . I—don’t remove the hair from my legs—and elsewhere. It might be repulsive for you to touch me. . . . I understand—I am sorry. . . .”

  For a moment, the sense of tragedy was returning to her features. But then she threw it off herself, like a dirty old blanket of pain. She got up from the bed. He watched in surprise, her strong decisive movements, those of a warrior going into battle.

  She stood before him with a cold remote blank face, and unbuttoned her pale fine blouse. Underneath, he saw she wore a cotton halter of some sort, to bind her breasts—plain and made for duty, rather than appearance. The shirt slid off her arms, and he saw pale strong woman’s arms exposed, with fine dark hair, with lines of old tan at her sleeves and throat, a workman’s tan. For some reason, that solid strong flesh moved him, in a way different from his normal perception of the female body. Unlike all he had seen, she was so real . . .

  She dropped the shirt on the ground, and stood before him, watching his eyes for any reaction. But he returned her gaze with an unreadable expression.

  But then his expression changed, and his lips involuntarily parted. For, she had leaned forward and began removing daggers—of all shapes and sizes—from around the folds and pockets of her trousers. And now that he saw it, he realized why she had insisted on herself removing her cloak. Where it lay on the ground in an elongated bundle, he saw the long thin shape that had to be metal, and a bulk that had to be a sheath of a skillfully concealed longsword. How did he not see that?! How could he be so lax, when he was the one supposedly playing the game?

  The daggers lay on the ground—all thirteen of them. And then she drew in a big gulp of air, and began undoing the buckle of her belt. Her plain trousers slid down along her hips, and underneath she wore prim underpants that more than concealed her genital area.

  “I am ready,” she uttered quietly, “Should I go into the water now?”

  For a second, he was almost speechless. His gaze moved from the daggers on the floor, to her elegant line of waist and hips, her long strong unshaved legs and thighs closely covered with black hairs.

  “Yes,” he said, with a different smile. “Now.”

  In silence, Ranhé turned away from him, and stepped into the pool. The warm waters swirled around her feet, then licked in eddies about her legs, as she descended the first four stairs, so that the waters were at the top of her thighs, almost at her crotch, soaking the bottoms of her underpants.

  He in turn, quickly divested himself of his trousers, and was left with nothing but a very brief loin covering. Normally, he would have removed that also, but seeing her psychological inability to completely disrobe, he did not want to frighten her. He stood for a moment, wanting the full effect of his body to be absorbed by her, but she never saw the sculpted lines of his stomach, his muscular thighs, for she had again turned her back on him, and stood, like one condemned, waiting for him to join her.

  For one instant only, he, who had been so perfectly sure of all things, felt a minute doubt. And then he shrugged it off, and like a great cat, silently entered the pool behind her.

  The water was warm, lapping gently about their thighs, and the vapor rose to dapple all skin with a fine sheen of sweat. He stood inches away from her back, afraid—despite his skill—to touch her, afraid to dispel this something, this state of delicate vaporous warmth and peace. And then he reached out with both hands to cup the ovals of her shoulders.

  His touch was delicate, exquisite like a summer moth’s wing, experimentally ephemeral. And yet, at his touch, her shoulder blades tensed, and only forcibly did she not allow herself to recoil.

  “You must allow me to touch you,” he said again, soothingly. “I will touch you so softly that you would never know. And I will only touch you in such places where you let me. And now, relax. I will stand behind you closely, and you must think of me as a wall of water, for I will keep you safe and warm just like the water warms your feet, your legs. Just so I will warm you. Sense me from your back, with your skin only, not quite touching, not quite—”

  “I am trying to relax,” she whispered then, half-turning her profile to him, and he realized her eyes were shut convulsively tight.

  “You will never relax until you loosen your eyelids,” he said in her ear with a smile, beginning to run his hands ah-so-softly down her back, her arms, her shoulder blades, and with each stroke he cupped a little of the water, and poured it in tiny warm rivulets down her skin.

  At first she was absolutely stiff. But then, the soothing warmth of the pool, his deep lilting voice, his apparently nonthreatening light touch, brought out a pliancy in her form. She loosened her spine, and allowed herself to move, to sway
gently under his massaging strokes.

  There had been nothing overtly sensual in his touch—for he had controlled it. And yet, as moments progressed, and the woman before him grew more pliant under his fingers, his strokes deepened. He allowed his hands to move from her shoulders and back to her lower waist, to that curve between waist and hip that was most pronounced in a woman’s body. His strong agile fingers came, full of warm water, to run up her sides, up her underarms where he felt a soft patch of hair, and slightly forward where would be her breast. . . .

  And here, her damned cotton underclothing was getting in the way.

  He hadn’t realized it, but as his hands were moving with soft magic over her body, he himself was growing warm and heady, and a remote light pulse was beginning in his own temples.

  “Relax . . .” his voice intoned, “Feel it, feel . . . the smooth water, trust me . . .” And yet, he was no longer clear as to what he was uttering, what caressing words came forth from his lips, for his own breathing had grown rhythmic and distinct inside his own lungs, singing an old familiar song in his head.

  Within moments, he realized he was no longer stroking her, but had drawn her nearly faint limp body against his own, from her back. Realized he was feeling the slippery pliant warmth of her back with his chest, its short blond hairs like cilia, sensing each cell of hers, each microscopic part of her surface.

  She too, appeared to fuse to him. She lay back against him, loose and pliant, and half-floating in the warm vaporous water—for they had inadvertently descended deeper into the pool, and the water had risen to the level of her hips.

  He held her tightly from behind, and his hands came to encircle the front of her waist, to touch the hollow of her belly, the cavity there, then rise higher, stroking, just below the halter that contained her breasts. At the same time, his male breath came in a muffled hot stream to lick the curves of her shoulders, the nape of her neck.

  He had a sudden urge to sink his lips against her nape, in that very concave place below her braid, but was afraid that would break her trance. Instead, he put his hands slowly lower, at her waist, and then, ever-so-gently, began to pull down the warm waterlogged underclothing that had bunched around her hips, at the same time realizing that his own hands were now trembling.

  And she let him.

  Soon, his skilled fingers had lowered the garment all the way, allowing it to sink down below the water, between her legs, upon the murky floor of the pool. And then, mesmerized, he watched the water lap softly against the revealed globes, the fine crevice of her nude buttocks.

  All along, there had been a heat rising somewhere at the core of him, a familiar brazen heat. He had focused so upon his touch of her, his delicate play of palm against skin, that he did not allow himself to know that there was a burning in his own lower extremities, that the place concealed by his wet loincloth, was heavy and alive, and pressing steadily forward.

  But now it had become obvious. And it would grow more obvious to her, if he again held her against him.

  Would she shudder in terror and flee, if she knew? He was not looking forward to her reaction. And yet, she must know by now.

  And then, he heard her breathing solidify also, and the sound of her female lungs shudderingly expelling the air filled him with an instant wildness. Afraid to make an excessive movement, he released her for a moment nevertheless. He had to remove his own loincloth, for it, that place below, had now become the center of things. . . .

  His fingers quickly freed his genitals from the folds of the wet cloth, and he allowed the piece of fabric to sink also below the surface of the steaming water.

  He stood and looked down at himself, down at the results. That sensation was now overwhelming all other senses.

  And then he moved behind her softly, water lapping at his bare flesh, and he lowered himself somewhat—at the same time wondering if she knew what he was doing, if she really understood—while he was sliding that part of himself lightly against the crevice of her buttocks, just below, barely touching her skin, barely skimming the surface of the water, barely moving, ah-feather-soft . . . once . . . twice . . . and then again. . . .

  For the first time, she made a sound, most likely against her will, and in reflex. And then she suddenly backed up close against him, so that her nudity was tight against his crotch, positioned in fact right above it, right above the wonderful place where he wanted her. . . .

  And then, just as there was the beginning headrush, he heard her whisper: “Touch me again, erotene . . . Touch me . . . I am not afraid. . . .”

  His hands had taken on a life of their own. He moved, solid male animal fingers, to tug at the bindings of her halter at her back—while a sensuous fury began to rise in him—loosened it finally after several strong pulls, and then heard a small satisfying rip. The cotton gave in at last, and with sadistic joy, he caught his breath, reached forward below her breasts, and caught something heavy in two large ready palms, just as it came free from the tight restraint, just as it descended right into his fingers, yes—

  A sound began forming low in his throat, but he never let it escape, never voiced anything, merely opened his lips in a straining silent Oh. For, even now he must not lose control, not yet, she was not quite ready yet. With both hands he massaged the newly freed breasts, feeling the points of her nipples, while she began to sway in rhythm against his chest, and to breathe out loud. He listened to her soft, regular moan-breaths, and without noticing it, moved himself against her, sliding back and forth from the bottom, just skimming the surface of the warm water and her round globular flesh . . . once . . . twice . . .

  Enough. He stopped, knowing that he was paused precariously on the edge, knowing the inevitable approach of a mad pattern that was about to take him away, unless he ceased now.

  But her breathing, her terribly female, soft, rhythmic breathing, caught him by surprise, made him again marvel, and pause, and listen to her. And because he stopped, was caught off guard, allowed himself to be lulled by the very rhythm he had just awakened in her, he was suddenly swooning. . . .

  The room abruptly faded in and out around him, while he—damn idiot—felt the familiar instant of blackout. In order not to fall, he reached out and clutched her roughly by the shoulders, and just stood there, leaning his forehead stupidly against the nape of her neck, letting his long hair sweep forward, stick to her skin in blond flax strands, while all his innards, his life force focused and convulsed with intensity, then burst through, and the hot liquid began to pump through him, squirted and spilled through the tip of him in creamy rivulets against the crevice of her damn oh-so-damn rump. . . .

  As though she had sensed that something was different, something was happening to him, she had grown silent, still, once again beginning to tremble under his touch.

  Bitch! Now that he could think straight again, a wave of cold fury overwhelmed him, fury first at her, and then, more fairly at himself, because he had lost control—she had made him lose control. The fury and the involuntary pity moved in him simultaneously now, perversely coexisting, and he knew he had to finish what he started here with her, to conclude the game.

  And so, because his mind was clear again, he straightened, and then—as though nothing had happened—gently slid his hands down her back, forcing her hips—still stained lightly with his pale excretion, though most of it had ran directly down into the water—down under the mauve water’s surface, where the astringent substance would promptly take care of any living seed. . . .

  At this point, he would not be surprised if she realized he was not who she took him to be. For, no true erotene would do what he did, would lose control to that extent, before the act of intercourse even began. And yet, he hoped she was so innocent that she would never know.

  He was wrong.

  “Who are you?” Her voice was a frightened whisper. At the same time, softly, she extricated herself from the touch of his hands at her hips, then waded deeper into the pool, up to her chest, holding her arms modes
tly crossed against her breasts, still with her back to him. He watched that braid of hers, first floating along the surface, then sinking, waterlogged, below the water, watched the fine moistened curls of her hair stick to her cheeks, the curve of her neck, her half-turned throat, pale below the old tan line. . . .

  And something within him, something momentarily human, surfaced, and he wanted to reach out and touch her neck gently, simply, despite all. For a moment, he needed again to rest his forehead against her warm sweaty skin, and just to remain thus indefinitely. That same urge prompted him, in a pang of honesty, to say, “I did not mean to delude you this far—Ranhé. Truly, I regret it now.”

  “Then . . . you are no erotene.”

  “No.”

  “Then, who the hell are you?”

  And because for some reason he wanted to regain from her a tiny portion of trust, he said, “The name, given to me by a woman who claimed to be my mother, is Elas.”

  Hearing which, unbelievably, convulsively, she began to cry.

  Ranhé felt the room spin about her, a blackness, a horror, and sobbed, with the utmost wrenching of her guts. Behind her, the man with the sun-hair stood in the mauve half-light of the chamber, and the color slid off his nude skin like liquid, drowning in the opaque surface of the pool, of which he, like a merman, was an extension.

  She wept because it was the end of self-delusion, the end of many things, and she was only vaguely present within her own body. Something had burst within her, and she was being carried on the flotsam of the wild pain, like a child’s wooden doll.

  Like someone else.

  It was someone else’s skin, and she was locked inside, screaming silently to come out. Or else, she was not screaming, simply lingering in a vacant powerless, listless place where there was no hope, just being swept away, anchored by a remote alien dark.