Here we are without constraint, or interference.
Let us to delve into the foray of my innermost thoughts and desires. I assure you there are no better expenditures of your time than to settle yourselves at my feet as I divulge my intimate musings.
I can feel your wanting—the longing for my touch. Nevertheless I must make it clear from the beginning, my heart belongs to another.
First, I’d like to take a moment to clarify a few earthly misnomers regarding celestial beings. Let’s set aside all false ideology regarding harps and such, and recover the truth of these sublime creations.
There are several camps of celestial beings, Angels in their subject orders, Sectors, Fems, Caelestis, Powers, Principalities, Thrones, Dominions, Virtues, Authorities, Councils, Orators, and Rulers.
We are not a common people. We are created beings. We have the ability to observe humanity in its live-stream temporal state—the original reality television if you will. And yes, we see you in your birthday suit, testing our your dance moves, studying your reflection as you contort a dozen different smiles—all amusing vanities that rarely spark our interest.
Human quirks aside—lets put to rest the most vicious rumor against my kind—that we are incapable of Eros love.
It is very much accurate to say created beings are not only capable of free will, but of desire, lust, and both carnal thirst and weakness. Somehow your watered down mythology lumped us together as genderless, meek, pansies akin to harp strumming butterflies—fierce as a gnat.
I’ll say it once, we can, and will, annihilate and destroy. We have the power to rain down fire from the sky, sweep away half the planet with plagues and illness if moved to do so. We are a band of warriors that operate under the authority to kill, slay, maim—aid if necessary. Whatever the assignment may be. We don’t argue. We simply get it done.
In regards to love, I won’t weary you with the basic mood groups. Instead, we’ll focus on the mystical Eros—the fruit of God—the gift of erotic love.
One of the most startling features of mankind is the puritanical nature of the masses. Astounding when you consider it. Eros love was never meant to be shameful or belittled as some dirty chore. Eros love is the most critical assignment given to man, and thus, one of the only acts replicated generationally other than eating or breathing.
Adam and Eve christened the garden with their love as the first order of business, and believe me when I say there is not better business than to propagate Eros desires.
In the past I have often put my own ability to love and be loved in return under the celestial microscope, and like humans, failed in the attempt to realize the dream. I had come close once before in the middle ages, England. But that’s a story for another day.
Although that love faded and the candle of our affection was quickly snuffed out, I have been fortunate enough to find another—my soul’s prime attachment, a mate, a companion—one who will be a lover without compare.
It is through the Nephilim—irritants they might be—that draws forth the love of my eternal grace, Skyla Laurel Messenger.
Early on when I was in observance of Skyla, she was fumbling around campus in a bathrobe—not a champion of sophistication but a rather delightful spitfire of conventional formality, filled with elegance and grace beyond her years.
I had subjugated her to my eminence in dreams and visitations, and I can assure you although resistant to my efforts at first, she’s come around quite nicely. Her interest in me is duly noted by the aura of sunset hues she releases while burning for my affection. Suffice it to say, there is fire in the air when Skyla is near.
To prove these aren’t the ramblings of a madman—a prized revelation has been divinely gifted to me through Delphinius, an Orator of great respect. He has revealed that Skyla and I will one day engage in holy matrimony. An idea so relished, so desired, I would have sold my rite as a Sector to procure her as my wife to begin with.
And, after the blessed event, Master willing, we will be anointed with a multitude of offspring, which in turn will procure dominion for us in both the ethereal and earthly planes. Such children the earth has never bore witness to prior or I suspect after, although I surmise the future lineage of my descendants will be equally exalted.
I do hope they have Skyla’s eyes—such magnificent beauty is found in her temporal being. It’s a crime of nature to have so many stunning attributes locked in a single person.
There is the matter of a certain affection being returned to me. I assure you I can feel Skyla’s wanting, her desire—her love for me is obvious when she pours herself into those passionate kisses. When she trembles in my arms, I ache to quench her every need.
One day, we shall find refuge and solace in one another’s arms, and should we fall to disagreement we’ll simply settle our differences in the nude, tucked beneath our satin sheets. How I long for days filled with settling our disagreements…
Although, I assure you I’m quite capable of keeping a heartfelt smile on my lovely bride by supplying a generous display of emotional and physical assurances—so many physical assurances—rampant, unbridled, unconstrained, enthusiastic exhibits of both public and private affection. There will be no bounds to my display of devotion. Rest assured I will pour passion out like oil over my beloved. Let’s just say the colloquial term “get a room” will go off like a choir when we’re in the trappings of the general public.
Let’s dissect Jock Strap for a moment, formally known to the populace as Gage Theodore Oliver or number forty-four if you prefer the coding of his inferior athletic pursuit.
He has a bad back, which he’s yet to put the finger on due to the fact he blames his aches and pains on the Pretty One for challenging his male prowess at every turn. I might be moved to snap him in two, should he continue to actively pursue the hand of my betrothed—give his vertebrae something a little more obvious to moan about.
His mind is in a constant state of copulation. It’s distracting when I’m attempting to lead the masses down a path of mathematical reason to have him bombard the atmosphere with thoughts of sacrilegious intercourse. Believe you me, envisioning a blatant pornography session with my future wife does nothing to get on my good side. In fact, it ignites me in a rage to bear witness to the carnality of his boyhood fantasies.
I’d like nothing more than to pith his grey matter right through his lewd glowing eyes. I have a quiver full of arrows ready and willing to assist me in the endeavor. It would be a great way to put an end to the atrocities he afflicts me with and an end to him in general. We will get to the end of young Oliver—that much I can assure.
On to the Pretty One; Logan, unlike Jock Strap, does show a significant aptitude for sacrifice where Skyla is concerned, and in turn, this concerns me. He did employ a rather unusual level of devotion far beyond any puppy love that might be expected at his age when he abandoned his Celestra standing. He’s numbered himself with the Countenance on her behalf, and now Skyla’s heart is forever pricked with undying dedication.
Lets be clear on one thing as we prepare to depart—not a moment passes without Skyla in my thoughts, or in my heart. The prospect of losing her for a time to another is far too excruciating to bear, and thus, I mustn’t allow that misstep to interfere with the building of our intimacy.
I shall quench a flame or two on my own if I have to.
After all—death becomes everybody.
My banner over Skyla is love.
Here it is! Marshall Dudley’s point of view. Let me preface this by saying this is a scene from TOXIC (I won’t say whether it’s Part One or Part Two) but Marshall may have embellished slightly as to how it all unfolded. Then again, he might just be telling the truth. ;)
*(Skyla visiting Marshall past midnight. She is markedly late for their dinner date.)
“Finally,” Skyla says, striding in after a rather noisy pounding session where her fist felt the need to test the resolve of the door.
“Come in,” I say, after the fact. If it were anyone else I’d be less than amused by the infraction, but it’s not anyone else—it’s my future bride.
She barrels past me into the kitchen with a slick of mud on the side of her face, a tear or two on her sweater, and a muddied imprint of her bottom on the back of her jeans.
“You’re absolutely filthy—and I most definitely approve.” I give a wicked grin, and head in her direction. “I might be moved to bathe you.” I slide my finger down her cheek. “Oh, how I’ll scrub,” I say, losing myself in the exasperation on her face. Her fits of vexation animate me on a primal level. That alone is reason to remain on this spinning rock long after I’m needed. I’ve found a new destiny and it very much involves a one, Skyla Laurel Messenger.
“You’re right, I am filthy.” She jams her fingers into her hair and further instigates the tumbleweed effect that’s forming. “I’m disgusting, don’t look at me. And, for sure, no scrubbing.”
“You, my love, are far from disgusting. Although, if you prefer, we can continue this conversation somewhere devoid of light—horizontally if you wish.”
She pinches her lips with a brief look of disdain.
There’s an overall war torn appeal to her this evening but by no means does it distract from her beauty—in fact, it amplifies it immeasurably—makes her all the more alluring with that, ‘I might kill you and eat you for breakfast’ look in her eye.
“I’m moved to run a bath for you,” I confess. “You could sit on my lap while I offer you a shoulder massage.” I offer an impromptu preview of the bliss to come, and she rolls her head back in ecstasy. Skyla lets out a moan that raises the temperature in the room by fifty degrees. “I’m sure we could both let out a little pent up frustration in the process.”
“No need.” Her eyes spring wide and she jumps out of reach. “I’ve got Logan for that.”
An image of her locked in the Pretty One’s arms infuriates me, and I’m reminded why it is she’s late in the first place.
“I was expecting you hours ago. This far from pleases me,” I inform. “I’ll be sure to let Logan in on my displeasure as well.” A slow brewing anger stirs in me and I’m well aware of the spark of envy that has lit this inferno. The way those Oliver dolts monopolize her time you’d think the war were being decided by whoever manages to impale her first. “Let the record show, I disapprove of your nocturnal wanderings.”
She gags in lieu of a response. “Excuse me—I had a war to fight.”
“Which you lost.”
“Which my mother lost because she flipped the switch before your frat brother could give me the heads up on how to take the region.”
“She’s not one to make things easy.” I withhold a grin.
“What are you laughing at?” She snaps.
“Dare I say, you.” There’s nothing I relish more than my beloved worked up in a frenzy. It’s almost worth the contention just to watch her writhe in a hotbed of agitation. She’s viral, this one. “You, Skyla, certainly know how to bring the passion to the table with your virulent outbursts of both the emotional and physical variety—and how I look forward to more of the physical.”
“We’ll see about that.” She moves past me deeper into the kitchen and lifts the lid off a pot.
Was I just privy to a sprig of carnal hope?
For a moment I consider abandoning the meal and running her up to the bedroom instead. There is no greater aggression that begs to be unleashed, than after a bout of good old-fashioned warfare.
Skyla leans into the pot and indulges in a guttural moan that sends my testosterone rising, among other things.
“Smells like heaven!” she says, pressing her hand to her chest as though it were the first aroma she has ever enjoyed—and with her mother’s disastrous kitchen tinkerings it just might be. “What is it?”
“Squirrel—caught two in the yard.” I broaden my chest with the proclamation. “A man with good aim is difficult to come by,” I purr. “And, I assure you, that skill is best employed in the bedroom. I’m more than willing to demonstrate later—show, don’t tell, and all those good lascivious adages.”
“I’ll pass,” she says, lacking the enthusiasm I was hoping for. “And really? Squirrel? That’s freaking gross.”
Good Lord, she’ll never appreciate my culinary skills if I keep confessing what’s on the menu—best leave some mystery in this arena of our relationship.
“That’s not freaking gross,” I inform. “That, my love, is dinner.” I flip the dishtowel up over my shoulder, eluding to the fact I’ve far more interesting things to sling but she doesn’t flinch. “And, where were you after the war?” I even my tone. I know very well where she was and with whom. “I was beside myself with worry.”
“With Logan and Gage, thank you very much.” She goes over and lands on the sofa before seductively flicking off her heels. She lies back on her elbows and glimpses at me from under those long, dark lashes. Whether or not she realizes it, she’s a vixen of the highest order.
“You my dear kitten are impossibly titillating.”
She purses her lips. “I don’t know what the hell you just said, but it sounds disastrous.” Her eyes close a moment from sheer exhaust.
“Never you mind your pretty little head. What’s important is that you’re no longer with the twisted Olivers—you’re here.” I slink my way over. “And might I note that you lose each time you’re in their presence. Accept the fact they’re cursed and move on. I suggest you find someone of noble character, someone who comes from victory, like me.” I hover over the couch and inspect her from this aerial vantage point—her golden hair slightly frazzled, her silver eyes partially closed. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was beckoning me to lie next to her.
Dear God up in Heaven—she’s giving me the come hithers.
I hurdle the back of the sofa and land next to her with the deftness of a feathered wing. “I want to hear all about your time in the Ethereal Plane. Tell me everything.” Conversation is the height of foreplay to human women. After six thousand years of observation I know this well—it’s almost an unfair advantage.
Her ribbon lips curve into a delicious smile as she places her head in my lap and takes up my hand. She looks up at me, pure as the driven snow and my entire being electrifies at her touch.
Skyla starts in on a long sordid tale of intrigue and mystery, peppering the lopsided conversation with the occasional stray thought.
I run my gaze over her supple neck, the perfect hourglass that her hips afford. My mouth desires to trace out the landscape of her every curve. I crave to have her, right down to her tiny beautiful feet. How I yearn for the moment she graces my chambers night after luscious night with all of the affection we can afford. We’ll charge the air with our ferocity. I can almost feel her skin burning against mine, the singe of her thighs smoothing over me as I make her my wife with a pronounced finality.
“I can hear you,” she flat lines.
A smile rides up my cheek. “Though the deep drink of our love tarry—wait for it.”
“As I was saying…” Skyla carries on with the stamina of an auctioneer as she details the events of the past several hours. She strings out a single sentence without interruption for five solid minutes regarding Delphinious, the weather, Jock Strap—and Harrison-I-Specialize-In-All-Things-Illegal.
My fingers ache to touch her but I veer from her skin and indulge in her luscious curls instead. Such amazing beauty, such stunning attributes—I would say, they broke the mold when they created her, but in truth, it was her mother’s egotistical need to duplicate that led to Skyla’s beauty. The only difference being, Candace is severely lacking in the gentle soul department—fortunately for me, her offspring is not. Skyla glows from the inside with a radiant beauty.
“And, that’s how it ended,” she sighs into me. “You know…” She burrows the back of her head deeper into my lap and rouses more than my curiosity. “Sometimes I feel as if I’m all alone.”
“You have me.” I probe her with a heavy gaze. “For the rest of your days I will be here for you—someone to trust, to lean on—to have and to hold from this day on.”
She reaches up and presses her fingers to my lips. “Those sound an awful lot like wedding vows.”
I snatch her hand and hold it to my mouth. “One day they will be. You will be everything to me, Skyla. A lover.” I press my lips to her ring finger. “A friend.” I kiss another slender digit, dipping it just past my lips. “My spouse.” I plunge her entire forefinger into my mouth and run my tongue along the back as she slips it out. “Where shall we spend our honeymoon?” Tasting her flesh has invigorated me to the prospect.
“No honeymoon,” she’s quick to assert. “But, well…” She folds her arms tight across her chest. “Since I’m not seeing Gage—and Logan wants to wait until the end of the faction war before we see where our ‘feelings’ lie—I suppose I’m open.”
“Open?” My jaw goes slack.
“You know…” She shrugs. “For your wooing—no kissing though. You’ll have to woo without lingual contact.”
“No kissing.” I repeat as though I meant it. “Fantastic.” I marvel. “What shall we do to commemorate our first day of coupledom?”
“Let’s hop in that mirror of Demetri’s and see what’s cooking on the other side.” She prods me in the ribs as if I were cattle. “You’re a Sector—you can get us out of any number of messes. Come on.” She shakes me by the collar in what can only be described as a partial assault. “I’ll be fun.”
“Absolutely not.” I grit my teeth at the idea. “There’s an off chance it might have diminishing effects on my powers. I can’t risk getting caught with my proverbial pants down. I won’t have it. In fact, I should give you a good tongue lashing for entertaining the idea.” A lewd smile begs to glide across my face. “Shall I start now?”
“No.” A tiny dimple ignites on her left cheek and it takes all of my celestial reserve not draw her up and cover my mouth over hers. “And,” she continues, “I seriously doubt you’d have anything to be ashamed of with your pants leveraged to the ground. In fact, I’m betting you’d draw an awful lot of attention.” She runs her tongue over the rim of her lips and gently moves her neck over my hips. “Something tells me you’re a real crowd pleaser. You’re a giver, aren’t you, Marshall? And, I can tell you have a lot to give.”
I’m stunned into silence.
I pluck a twig from her sweater. “Shall we run upstairs and get you into something a little more comfortable?”
“Let’s see—” She runs her fingers through my hair as though she were considering far more than relaxing in my briefs. Her breathing grows erratic. I can feel her desire rising for me like an aria. The only thing we’ll be feasting on this evening is ourselves. There could be no better meal. “I bet your bed falls under the category of something more comfortable.”
“If you insist.”
A knock erupts at the door before I can seize the moment and steal her away.
“Give me a second—I’ll get rid of them.” I rise in haste nearly depositing her to the floor.
“It’s probably just Gage,” she says, averting her eyes at the thought.
“Like I said, give me a second—I’ll remove them from the planet.”
We head to door and I swing it open ready to behead whichever Oliver has the misfortune to darken my doorway, however, there’s no sign of an Oliver for miles—its Shelly.
“Expecting company?” Skyla cuts me a sharp look. Clearly she’s reduced to cinders at the thought of Shelly warming my bed at night.
“What’s going on?” Michelle asks, wide-eyed and stunned to see Skyla by my side.
“Just hanging out,” Skyla says with a touch of ownership over yours truly.
This is panning out better than I could have expected. Shelly showing at this late hour has incited my love to a fit of jealous rage. She’ll want nothing more than to make me hers before I’m snatched away by my former mistress.
“You wanna come in?” Skyla offers. “We were just about to play a game.”
“What?” I balk.
“Sure,” Shelly growls, as the two of them ignore my clear surprise.
“Shelly, you can’t stay.” I turn her by the shoulders and begin to usher her right back from where she came. “Ms. Messenger and I are calling it a night. We’ve a game to play in private.” I slide a secret smile over to Skyla. Let the record show the boudoir adventure was her brilliant epiphany.
Shelly’s face rounds out in horror as she struggles to remain inside. I give a generous shove and bid her goodnight before securing the door behind her.
“You.” I take Skyla in my arms and press a warm kiss over her lips until she pulls away. I absorb her form, her features as if she were the only sustenance I needed to survive, and truthfully she just may be.
“Now where were we?” she whispers, running her lips along the underbelly of my jaw while procuring an involuntary groan from deep within me.
“I believe we were headed upstairs.”
(Another Marshall POV, after ELYSIAN)
(Another Marshall POV, after ELYSIAN)
Marshall Dudley, here.
The following is for your pleasure only, and, well, that of Ms. Messenger. But, for obvious reasons, she isn’t yet informed of the salacious circumstances that wait for her in the foreseeable future. Some things are better discovered in the natural order of events. However, for the sake of today’s dalliance, I’ll invite you to sneak a peek beneath the sheets.
Shh… come this way.
I trot downstairs to find Ms. Messenger has kindly let herself in, and is already moping about the kitchen, holding the refrigerator door open as if staring at the food might play a part in digestion.
“An Oliver got you down?” It’s a formality to ask at this point. I snap up the leather whip from the corner and check my hair in the reflection of the window. Then I see her—the woman of my dreams—traveling from the future just to please me—headed off to the barn for our afternoon romp. A smile begs to form on my lips but I won’t give it lest Skyla think I’m relishing her hormonal hysteria.
“You know the drill." She comes over—her perfume is sweet as honeysuckle. "It's practically a daily requirement for me to moan over those boys."
I touch her cheek with the tip of the leather and move my efforts south until I hit the lip of her jeans. I frown at the devilish denim—tight as hell. It’s the modern day chastity belt the way its torture to take off, and, yet, the plebeians of this generation will be the last to realize it.
“Where are you off to?” Her expression dims. Her eyes fall to my opened shirt, and her lips part.
“Rumor has it, there’s a restless animal in the barn.” I take a step into her until my lips are inches away from hers. “A very naughty, naughty, animal who needs to be disciplined—on her knees, among other subservient positions.”
She swallows hard. Her heart echoes over mine.
I take a step back and examine her in this pre-coital flux, delighting in the fact that in just a few mere minutes I’ll be able to alleviate her tension in the most sinfully expectant manner.
“Is something wrong?” I peer at her with my lids lowered, my fingers brushing against her thigh.
“No.” She comes to as if waking from a trace. “What’s that thing in your hand, anyway?” Her nose crinkles and makes her look every bit adorable.
I crack the whip over the counter, and it cuts the air with a crisp, satisfying snap.
“This, my love”—I hold it up for her inspection—“is for both your pleasure and your pain.” I glide it softly over the side of her cheek, causing her lids to flutter—her breathing to grow erratic.
I slip past her, out the back, and make my way to the barn. A soft glow emits from inside, and I find my bride on her knees wearing the period piece I’ve requested—a ladies dress with full corset and bustle. That devilish smile I’ve grown to appreciate greets me, and my body rouses to life at the sight of her.
“Candles? In a barn, Skyla? Really?” I growl as I make my way over. “You’re going to burn us to the ground before we have the chance to launch one another into the stratosphere.”
“You’re right.” She bends over severely, and her cleavage blooms as it spills from her corset. “We’ll burn this place down all right, but the fire will come from you and me.” She lifts her dress just past her thighs and arches her head back to better see me. I glide the riding crop toward her and lift her skirt ever so higher.
“Where to begin?” It comes from me sharp like a command.
“Let’s begin”—her hands move to the front of my jeans in one smooth stroke—“right here.”
Two hours later…
(Celestra Forever After)
“Where were you just now?” I lean in with suspicion. “You look like holy hell.” I take him in with his rumpled hair, his shirt unbuttoned down the front, his rock hard abs slicked with sweat. “If I didn’t know better…” I let the words hang in the air so thick you could hook a coat on them.
A sly grin plays on his lips as he stares out the window.
“You do know better, don’t you, Ms. Messenger.”
“Who is she?” It comes from me barely audible.
He cuts a quick glance in my direction and reverts his gaze back out toward the barn, guilty as hell.
“Oh God, no.”
“I believe the words you used just moments before were, ‘Oh God, yes, yes, yes.’”
“Language.” He gives a sly smile as he walks on by.