The Big Game Hunter

The Big Game Hunter The Big Game Hunter

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Summary

A big game hunter has his heart broken

Summary

A big game hunter has his heart broken

Content

Submitted: December 23, 2012

A A A | A A A

Content

Submitted: December 23, 2012

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The elephant rifle was hung on the fleur-de-lis papered wall pointing up the stairs. Its rich mahogany butt was spiraled like a snail house. The blackened metal bolt’s surface was rough and ornate at the same time. The whole wood and metal work was very ornate, crafted in hours of hand labor, yet the factory made barrel part was a crude tube. It was my grandfather’s, who stoically looked out into the lobby with the chandelier from the oil painting with the heavy frame.
 
I smelled the black powder residue on the gun – burnt metal, dirt, a hint of banana, the stink of sulfur – and dreamt of his adventures in the bush of Africa and the forests of India, as he looked into the distance with his beige safari hat tropical suit. He was always groomed impeccable on the paintings. In person, he was a sweaty, bellied man with his hair tussled, always packing or unpacking for another trip. The country home in Fontainebleau was merely the storage space for his trophies.
 
And so I walked down the stairs, across the thick carpet made Persia. My hands caressed the multi-colored glass ball made by a Berber prince. Compulsory, I made a move on the true ivory chess board, a family habit of a long running chess game. Whosoever passed the board made the next move. The maid in her black and white uniform watched my reminiscing silently, motionlessly from the distance of the hall. When I was younger, she had admonished me without scruple. She knew that today was another day, a day where she kept her place.
 
With one hand on each door, I swung open the heavy double door to the circular driveway. The pure and rich air of the famous Fontainebleau forest hit my nostrils. Birds were chirping on the trees that lined the driveway. Three deer and a baby deer with black and white spots were peacefully eating the grass, their wet, black noses diving into the boot deep bouquet of wild flowers. The soft scent of the flowers had a way of clearing the palate. I could taste my saliva cleaner, clearer, freer.
 
My heart skipped a beat, when I walked up to the tree house. Muscle memory made me sling my foot around the smooth, white, arm-thick branch. As I pulled myself up onto the next branch, my thighs slipped around the branch. My body was larger now, yet the feel of the smooth bark gliding under me and my body twisting was deeply familiar. Reaching the nailed together wood boards, I slid my belly across them. All the dust and dirt rubbed on my clean, white shirt and pleated pants. This is the way it always was. This is the way it had to be.
 
My father had spent many hours with me laying belly down, chin propped on the palms. He taught me to recognize the woodpecker, the chiffchaff, and the blackcap. Most of all, I liked his hunting stories. All of our family hunted. However, my father was another kind of hunter.
 
One time, he had travelled to Dakar in Senegal by boat. The harbor was a tangled mess of sail boats. Chests were carried off and onto boats. A camel was patiently re-chewing its food with the jaw lazily grinding left to ride and the big lip hanging out. It was his first sight of a camel. The fur was all messy. Green grass marks were rubbed onto its cheeks, nothing like the clean, picturesque camel paintings.
 
“Dakar,” announced the captain unceremoniously after the deckhand had tied the ship to the land. There was no gangway. My father seized up the jump to the land. The sliver of water beneath the boat and the land was a medley of rotten food, dead fish, and indescribable garbage. The stench filled him with disgust. The common streets of Paris smelled of sweaty armpits and horse shit. The hot African sun had baked and rotted the refuse into a horrific stench.
 
The harbor street was yellow, hard baked dirt, no pavement. Lines of muscular, black man with twisted cotton loin clothes would carry crates on their head. Their back muscles were thick and strong. Their chests were round pillows of muscle with even blacker nipples. Scrawny poor black men with wilted muscles and squinted eyes were trying to beg and steal from the riches passing by. Occasionally, a black man dressed in purple and golden garment would address the Frenchmen. Pouches of many would change hands with opulent rings with rubies over big smiles. The white Frenchmen in Western clothes were pressed into the throng of people, traders. Since the opening of the second rail road to Bamako, Dakar had become the premier trading post in Africa.
 
He put his foot on the railing, carefully getting a good grip to push off and onto dry land. His head was dizzy at first, land sickness. His sense of balance had become used to the constant motion of the ocean. The motion continued on dry land. Wavering, he entered the throng of people. His hands were pushing roughhewn clothed backs out of the way. Powerful man pushed into him. The constant motion of the people around him made him even sicker.
 
Gladly, he found emptier streets away from the harbor. The midday sun had driven all but the scrawny dogs into the shade. White washed African houses were made from clay with doors and windows having neither glass nor doors, simply openings. Savory smell of lamb meat and bread permeated the air. Despite the heat, the skin felt dry. The dry air soaked up any sweat immediately. His mouth was parched.
 
Happily did he enter the Rai d’Or, a French sign above the entrance. Coming from the blinding sunlight, the inside was completely black. Fearing his blind helplessness, he clutched the dagger in his pants tighter. Subtle ding sounds of cups and silverware calmed his nerves. Laughter emanated from a table far away. The kisses sounded from somewhere else. The smell of lamb made his dried out tongue salivate again.
 
The blackness differentiated into shades of dark gray. Female hands touched his hands. They were larger and rougher than he was used to. With an African accent and a deeper, more guttural voice, a black woman asked him to follow her. She guided him by the hand like a little child into the womb of the tavern. She made him half lie, half sit down on the carpet ringed by pillows. There was a low table in front of him.
 
She left him there for a moment to return with a thick bottomed shot glass. She placed it down on the low table.
 
“Drink, the hot tea will make you sweat. That will cool you down.”
 
She gestured him to pin the glass by the bottom and top to avoid the hot side. He took it down in one swig. The tongue and throat burned from the heat. The taste was intense and delicious. Waiting for the heat pain to subside in his belly, his brows formed thick sweat drops. The sweaty skin left him in refreshing respite.
 
The scene around him had grown clearer. A Frenchman was passed out on the blankets with his arms sprawled out, chasing the dragon. A group of Frenchmen were dividing opium on a little table. Another sole Frenchmen was slowly kissing the bare breast of a black woman lying across his lap. A young couple was speaking low to each other. The darkness obscured everyone and gave them a sense of privacy. A chef was bringing out plates of stew.
 
He ate his stew and indulged in hot tea freely. What drew his attention over and over was the a side room. There was no door. The side room was brighter. Every once in a while, he saw a female silhouette moving about in there. There was a softness about the small woman. Her movements were fast and business like unlike the hazy, lazy movements in the den.
 
With the back of his hand, he wiped his mouth after the meal. He rose from the comfortable pillows and carefully wondered to the side room. The half-light made it hard to see the abandoned cups, pillows, and limbs of passed out opium users. He carefully stepped with his left foot leading and the right foot dragging behind.
 
There was a woman in the side room, a French woman, dressed in a business suit, the face lightly made with makeup, the hair arranged properly. Binders were neatly piled on a standing desk. She tallied lines. She jumped a little, when she saw him.
 
“Monsieur, this room is off limits. Please, return to the den.”
 
She spoke in perfect French with precise enunciation.
 
“Mademoiselle, I am intrigued to find someone as studied as you here.”
 
“I am not a prostitute like the others. I am the accountant.”
 
“How does a studied woman like you end up here?”
 
“My father was a missionary. He took me to Dakar. After a few months, he succumbed to the dragon and disappeared. What was I supposed to do? I had to pay for food. So, I took this position to do accounting for a merchant. What do you do here?”
 
“I read people. I am looking for a special kind of people.”
 
“Are you a psychologist? Would you analyze me?”
 
“I am not a psychologist. I am more of a mystique. I see the spirit animal in people. Every person looks human on the outside. Yet on the inside, they have a spirit animal that describes their nature.”
 
“What is my spirit animal?”
 
 
“I’d have to get to know you. Would you take me on a walk to a place that is special to you?”
 
“You are not like the other man? The other men only want to slip their penis in me.”
 
 
She looked at him pensively. Her facial features were small. She had thin, pink lips and small blue eyes. Her skin was pale from being indoors all the time. She wore a shirt business skirt that showed her legs unashamed. She was a flapper. She wore a blouse from a louse material that made the ventilation better in the heat. The buttons were casually unbuttoned to expose her décolleté. The contour of the blouse suggested bare breast, the size of an apple each hanging there. Her fingers were smooth and porcelain like.
 
She tapped the pencil more rapidly on the standing desk as her thoughts neared conclusion. A soft strand of hair fell onto hair angelic face a moment, before she rounded her mouth into a seductive O to begin speaking.
 
“Monsieur, I am very much intrigued to discover that spirit animal of mine. Would you be able to wait until an hour to sunset?”
 
 
He tapped his hat, “Obliged,” and slung back into the darkness of the den.
 
Near nightfall, he was glad to step in front of the den and out of the heavy scent of unwashed sex and burned opium. The air was cool. Her greeting was refreshing with her high-pitched cordial voice.
 
“Halo, monsieur! I don’t even know your name.”
 
“Marc. My pleasure!”
 
“Oh, you are so cordial,” she said with a coquette giggle, “I am Alice.”
 
“Tell me about yourself, so that I may begin the reading.”
 
She placidly took him by the hand to guide him through the streets. She had the careless bounce of a child in her step.
 
“Oh, there is not much to tell. I was a missionary’s daughter. He always treated me like his precious bird. He’d dress me in nice clothes, bring me to school, and took care of everything. He was a good man. However here in Africa, he lost hope. He found the opium. And the opium took everything from him.”
 
“Now, I have a French merchant boss. He pays me a small salary, enough to live, not enough to return to Paris. And he knows it. He does it on purpose. Sometimes, he calls me his little caged bird without any pretense. He offered to marry me. I said no. He never forced me. I know he is waiting. He thinks eventually, I cannot control myself, I will have a weak moment.”
 
“How do I know? He paid handsomely for a pair of frogs. They are not the frogs for eating. They are the frogs for testing for pregnancy. They are injected with urine of the woman. If the frog lays eggs within 12 hours, the woman is pregnant. He always has a deeply red face, when he feeds them. He doesn’t know that I know. But, I studied at the ecole.”
 
We walked through streets that were lined with huts. Black African people were sitting in front of them. They were grinding grains, stitching clothing, or playing games of throwing sticks into certain patterns. A naked young toddler would stomp his fat, little legs. A goat would ring the little bell around his neck, while he was pulling on hard, dry grass growing at the side of a hut.
 
The streets softly ascended to a hill. The huts gave the hilltop space in reverence. At first the hilltop appeared empty. On closer approach, they were the leftover ruins of a church. A few bricks marked the foundation, half hidden by dry desert bushes.
 
She sat down in the center of the ruins Indian style. There was a way about her movement that suggested intimate familiarity with the place. To him, it was a desolate place. Yet, in her eyes, he could see the happy memories of late adolescence. He sat down in front of her. She put her hands flat on the ground to gesture him.
 
“This is the last place, where I was free, where I had a future.”
 
She looked at him sadly. He gathered her hands and turned them over to look at her palms. She curiously tried to glean a look at what he was looking at. He was looking at nothing. He kissed the palms. The warm lips on the delicate hands made her heart smell with warms. She blushed and turned her face down.
 
“To do this reading, I will have to read your heart beat. As you know, the heart carries the blood. And the blood carries the soul.”
 
He held his hands up into the air to wait for her permission. She nodded carefully. He reached his hands forward and nestled his hands between her bosoms. He pushed the fabric down to feel her rib cage. He was nervous. He could not feel her heart beat.
 
“I cannot feel it. Let me come around.”
 
He circled around her. He cradled her from behind. He pushed her back against his chest. He touched her center chest. Now, he could feel her breathing and the small bum-bum of her heart. He knew that she could feel him as well. The intimacy made him rush with adrenaline. It was like he was out of breath. He had the urge to open his mouth. He felt strange for showing her his heavy breathing. He tried to fight against the urge to breathe hard and steadied his breath.
 
They looked out onto the sunset over Dakar, the half island surrounded by water. The insects were singing their lullaby. Each breathes that they felt in each other had its own rhythm. She was breathing hard as well. He could smell her musky hair. He struggled at first against it, trying to reject the smell. And then he surrendered to the smell, letting it freely flow into his lungs. It was an act of deep emotional acceptance.
 
When he held her, he did not hold that pale white woman that the tavern customers leered for. When he held her, he held her fragility, her weakness of forces larger than her moving her life. When he held her, he could feel the plainness of her morning wash. Her living arrangement was very bare, yet she would dress herself nice and show a façade.
 
She whispered with earnest, “Thank you for doing this. I am so at peace, I can hear the insects. I can hear the wind in the bushes. I can hear the faraway waves. I can hear the man yelling in the harbor on the other side of the half island.”
 
He gently kissed her on the side of the neck. His kisses were making a line. Then his tongue slipped out and painted on her salty, musky skin in circles and waves. She turned her head to look at him with dark black eyes of the twilight. He just kissed her on the soft lips. The soft lips surrendered with a gentle moan. Her delicate fingers touched his skin.
 
“Is this part of the reading,” she whispered with a sensual exhale.
 
“I am not just reading your palms. I am reading your soul.”
 
“Oh,” she gentle moaned in a high pitched way. He let his hand slip onto her nipples. They were soft. She squirmed deeper against him. He pulled the soft, loose blouse off her body. Her breasts were bare. She looked around for a moment and realized that them sitting low, they were protected by the ruins on the missionary outpost.
 
Her body was alive with eroticism. Her spine moved around. He knew that she was ready and slipped his hands down her pants to feel her crotch. She was still dry on the outside. His fingers found her entrance and carefully went inside. He could feel the juice there. He spread the juice over his fingers and spread it over her outer lips. She grinded her groin against his fingers. She was ripe.
 
She feverishly pulled her pants off and rolled onto the dry dirt. He struggled with his clothes. They got caught around his feet and seemed to tighten there. He kicked hard to get them off.
 
She pulled his penis into her vagina quickly. His teeth delicately bit her lower lip and held onto it, while he was working a rhythm inside of her belly. Her eyes were closed and pulling on his bare naked butt to penetrate her deeper.
 
He rolled her over onto her belly with her knees under her chest. Her vagina lips were a slit accessible from behind. He penetrated her from behind and held her like a little bundle. She wrapped her arms around her knees and cozied her body together. Placidly, she let pussy by wiped by his sword in and out. She let his body drape around hers skin to skin. The full body touch of the warm, smooth skin heartwarming.
 
She moaned as an orgasm approached. He let his seed release. The seed pooled deep in her belly. She gently purred. The purring turned from human to dove-like. And as the seed settled in her, she turned into a white dove. He lifted his weight off her back onto his hands to avoid crushing her. She opened her wings and fluttered into the night sky of Dakar.
 
My father explained, “If you really connect with the true nature of a person, you set them free.”
 
My father was a hunter of spirit animals. He would go to distant cities, searching for people with a special spirit animal. He had been on many travels. However, a few days ago, he had disappeared from Fontainebleau to the city, Paris. He was searching for a special animal that supposedly had been seen here in Paris.
 
When he returned, his clothes were torn to shred. He had a blood covered bandage over his shoulder. The servants rushed for the doctor. I still remember the night. We were in the master bed room. All the servants were lined up against the wall. Their faces were ghastly white. None of them dared utter a sound. Dark shades flickered over them from the candle light.
 
The family doctor was an old man with big, white fluffy hair on the head and an elegant black bow tie around the neck. Thirteen stitches were needed. The doctor carefully pierced his skin with a hook needle pulling the black yarn through it. The strong stable boy pinned down father, who was screaming in agony. I was shocked. The maid silently and gently rocked my side to side to calm me, while holding me.
 
Father collapsed into a deep sleep. I spent the night sleeping in his bed with my arms around his chest, careful not to touch his injured shoulder. I could smell a woman’s body on him. The bed was so soft that I sank deep. I thought I was awake the whole night listening to the tick-tack of the mechanical watch in the corner. However, I awoke to glaring sunshine with my father gently caressing my hair, folding it over to the side again and again.
 
I smiled to see him awake. He said that everything was fine. I saw the dirty, empty breakfast dishes on the bed side table and knew that it was true. Of course, he had to tell me the story.
 
He had gone to Paris. Ah, the city! He had watched straight into the face of horse wagon driver, the perched up body posture, the dull, expressionless face, as the wagon wheels pierced through a pile of horse manure and splattered it in a wide circle. There was no remorse. The modern automobiles that started to fill the streets were such a better mode of transportation.
 
The men were walking in their suits on the busy sidewalks. The women were easily distinguished into traditional house wives, the long hair and traditional dress, and flappers, the flaunters of tradition. The flappers dared to cut their hair short, wore short skirts that showed their bare legs. This was a time of upheaval, where women were allowed to vote and take up occupations. Foreigners had streamed into the city from America, Africa, and Asia. The Americans had brought a new garment, a kind of clothes wrapped around the neck like a rope, aptly named tie. The Africans were wearing white full body gowns.  The Asians were screaming in high pitched sounds about the price of fish on the corner.
 
He walked through the streets for hours. He passed the café’s with the tiny chairs that were packed next to each other. People were drinking coffee from white porcelain cups with pretentiousness. He observed the people. He’d walk behind a woman, trying to mime her exact walk to entrain herself into her mood and energy level. Disappointed by what he found, he’d observe another woman packing a cart with groceries. He observed the way her hands moved. He looked at her elegance and clumsiness. It was not what he was looking for. 
 
By chance, the smell of Victoria amazonica, a giant water lily, entered his nostrils, reminding him of a hunting trip to Bogota, Columbia. Magically drawn by the scent, he entered the little flower store in a dead end cobble stone alley. The doorbell hanging over the door rang with clarity.
 
The windows were steamy from the moisture of the rainforest plants. Cut plants with big leaves and vividly colorful flowers were piled into the window, into shelves, and hanging from the ceiling. He had to duck his head to navigate the miniscule aisle space of the store. From behind the cover of a voluptuous potted plant, he watched the store clerk.
 
She had black smooth hair that was cut short to the length of her chin. A perpetual mischievous smile played around her dimples. He was instantly drawn in. She went about her work in short explosive bursts. She’d fold up some papers with intensity. She’d pause to reflect. And then she’d jump with excitement onto the next task. It was like watching a cat lurking in ambush, and then jumping to play with a mouse.
 
Her flesh was firm. Her arms were bare and strong. She was a flapper, one of those reformed modern women that flaunted tradition. A woman with long dress, a traditionalist, entered the store. The customers face immediately drew into a frown about the encounter with a flapper. The customer immediately pushed her head dress into place over the blond long hair, as if to suggest that she was from a higher social order, a gesture that only made her look helpless.
 
“The flower delivery to my estate is late.”
 
“You did not pay enough money. You owe us 50 Franc.”
 
“There was a discount promised.”
 
The store clerk had a red face with anger. Her small figure seemed to shrink into itself even more. “You think because I’m young, you can do anything you want with me. I will not be pushed around without a fight!”
 
He had to hold his hand to cover a smirk. In his mind, he called the store clerk “my little rebel soldier. “ She seemed to have the constant urge to defend herself, even when she was not attacked. It endeared her somehow. She wasn’t a mean fighter out of spite. She wasn’t greedy. He could see in her a country girl, a girl that had moved from the country to live a cosmopolitan, independent life. He could see that she was fighting for a living in a new and foreign environment. She simply lacked the experience to understand that the haggling for discount was a normal, incessant trying that was easily placated with a firm no. It endeared her to be that naïve and to make him feel like an experienced, refined man.
 
The customer stormed out. The girl waved her fist after her. She looked so cute with the anger in her face and temper in her body.
 
He appeared from behind the plant and smiled warmly at her.
 
“Having a hard day, miss?”
 
“People always think that they can get everything for free.”
 
“How do you feel about getting something for free?”
 
“What do you offer?”
 
“I offer you a reading of your spirit animal. Have you heard about Sigmund Freud?”
 
“I am well familiar with monsieur Freud. One of his students psychoanalyzed me. It was very interesting.”
 
“I provide a similar kind of analysis. I will tell you the nature of your spirit animal.”
 
“Very intriguing.”
 
He had done this many times. He knew how to hook people. He suggested some aspect of her were rather feline-like, the way that she was independent to move from the country. She was intrigued and offered to try it after the store closed.
 
He waited in a nearby café, slowly sipping on tea, while devouring an apple cake with a hundred tiny bites to stretch out the time. She stood waiting on the stoop in front of the store. She had her hands folded in front of her and was swinging side to side excitedly. When she saw him, she burst out laughing in anticipation. He gentleman like took her arm and put it into the crook of his elbow.
 
“Where do we go,” she asked.
 
“To your place, it will let me better come in tune with your spirit animal.”
 
“But I only have a simple rented room.”
 
“If that is you, that is where we must go,” he smiled.
 
They walked arm in arm through the streets of Paris with men in coats bustling on their way home from work. She let him up eight stairs in a narrow stair case to the top of a cheap apartment building. Her room was simple. There was a white bed in the center. A pitcher with water was in a corner. She had her other set of clothes folded over a chair. He sat down unabashed on her bed. She reclined on her bed in complete surrender to the process. So, he reclined as well.
 
“So, I should tell you about myself,” sighed she, starring at the ceiling, “I was a girl in the country. I love my parents dearly. However, I felt suffocated. I felt like I would not be able to live there. They looked at me like something was seriously wrong for not marrying a man. I wanted to feel free. I had seen girls in the movies were short skirts. I had seen them smile. I had seen them study in ecole. Paris is where I had to go to be free.”
 
There was something so free about her, how she easily babbled about herself. It made him feel free himself. He was reminded of being an adolescent and hanging out with friends on their beds. There was something relaxed about her. She wasn’t eager like the other women to get a reading, trying to get something from him. She was simply talking about herself.
 
Noticing that openness, he could no longer hold himself back behind the façade of a reader. He had to surrender to her. He had to throw away the disguise and show himself.
 
“The reading, it’s a ruse. I use it to bait people. With you, I cannot play that game anymore. I simply want to feel this room and your presence.”
 
“That’s all right. When you were in the store, there was something about you that touched me. I did not take you to this room to get a reading. I simply wanted to be close to you.”
 
He breathed easier. It was like a metal band that had been constricting his chest was taken from him. They lay there breathing, silently savoring each other’s company. There was a peace in lying with each other, feeling connected, knowing that the other person wasn’t bored, but enjoyed the same communion.
 
“It’s getting cold. Do you want to cuddle under the sheets?” he asked.
 
She nodded. And they moved to get the sheet out from under them.
 
“I have travelled to all the continents. I have fired a gun at man and animal. Yet, I am afraid about some things. A mystique once told me to hold another person with the warmth of what a family feels like. I mean we both have had struggles with our families. No parents are perfect. However, imagine the perfect family that is safe, loving, and nurturing. Then take that feeling into a hug with another person. I cannot do it. I fear when I bring that out, I’d get hurt.”
 
She nodded making him fully understood without the need to blab.
 
After more silence had passed, she spoke, “I was so scared. When I arrived in Paris, I only had 10 Francs to my name. I was walking the streets with no references. This store took me in. They pay me just enough. The owner is always critical about how little I know. I fear that any day, he could fire me. I’m sure that he thought about it. We fight. It is terrible to worry every day about the end being right around the corner.”
 
He lovingly petted the hair over her forehead and held her in a warm hug, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” She almost cried in his arms. He could tell the suspended emotion of almost tearing into sobbing.
 
He could have had sex with her. Yet, he decided that the close intimacy was so much more fulfilling. He did not want to destroy it. When the moon was high, she sent him out, because she had to sleep for her next day at work.
 
The next day, he slowly stretched the time in the café with the paper and talking to random patrons. Near twilight, he walked over to the café to. Leaning against the wall opposite to the store, he waited. She opened the store door to close down. When she saw him, her face lit up, “Marc, it is you!” His heart just burst with the yonder of happiness at her joyful welcome. She jumped off the stoop to hug him joyously.
 
As he was holding her close, she leaned her head back to look him straight into the eyes – her brown eyes into his blue yes. “Will you show me how your other women liked making love to?” She had that smirk in her dimples.
 
And then, they ran hand in hand, joyous, into the darkness of the alley. The end of the alley was a wall. The tall buildings cast a dark shadow, where they disheveled their garments enough for eager hands to rub all over the skin, boobs, penis, vagina, back, belly, and neck. Her tongue shot into his mouth like a jumping fish. He was hard immediately. She did not pause to lift her dress, grip his penis, and push it into her vagina.
 
“Don’t you want foreplay?”
 
“I’m in some ways like a boy.”
 
She plunged herself up and down with a ferocity that made him fear for his penis piercing. Her nails dug deep into the skin of his shoulder. He liked feeling her taken over by the rush. He bit into the nape of her neck. She begged him to bite harder until he was almost taken a bite out of her. With ear piercing sound, she screamed in the throes of pleasure.
 
He felt her pushing her pelvis down hard. He met her hard push with an equally hard counter pushy. She seemed to like the penetration fast and furious. So, he rushed to fuck her as hard and as fast as he could. The orgasm was quickly nearly for both of them. She pulled his body hard onto herself. They fell, him on top of her. Without a break, he kept ramming her on the cobble stone ground.
 
“How do you feel,” asked he to check in with her.
 
“I feel so alive. Fuck me harder.”
 
And then he could no longer hold. With the next pleasure scream of hers, he released his seed into her belly. She let out a guttural moan that made him stare with eyes wide open at her. Her skin turned black, sleek black, sleek furry black. She pounced on her four feet. His seed had let her turn to her true nature, a black panther. She swatted his shoulder one last time with her claws. Then, she effortlessly jumped to the top of the wall and disappeared into the black Paris night, smooth, stealthily, invisible, and extremely powerfully.
 
He stumbled out of the alley, stopped a horse buggie, and paid the man handsomely to be returned to Fotnainebleau.
 
When my father arrived at this part of the story, I could see the tears in his eyes and the sweat on his forehead. He was in love. This girl had found a way through the cracks of his inner wall to sneak into his heart.
 
Also, a fever was festering in father. The doctor was called. When he opened the bandage, he saw that the wound had festered with yellow puss oozing out of it. The man with the fluffy, white hair and the pocket watch, shook his head solemnly, “The wound has festered too fast. There is nothing I can do.”
 
My father had made the acquaintance with an African mystique man Abiyoe. That man was called. He arrived promptly. I was sitting on the side of the bed. The house servants were wringing their hands worriedly. They started talking about their future. My father was only partially conscious, because of the fever. In the middle of this chaos, Abiyoe stood tall. He was 6’ 5”. He was dressed in a white robe. His head was shaven and painted with black symbols.
 
He had a friendly, warm, and jolly face. He took one look at father and said, “It is clear what is going on.” I begged him to explain. It was not clear to me or anyone else. The doctor observed Abiyoe with respectfully and patiently with a facial expression that said whatever Abiyoe would do was pure superstition.
 
“He turned another woman into her spirit animal. I told him to be careful with that magic. This woman liked being in her spirit animal form so much that she hasn’t turned back. As long as she remains in the spirit shape, she will draw the life from him. If she does not return to her human form quickly, he will die.”
 
“Why would she not turn back?”
 
“Some people are very feral. They identify much more with their animal part than their human part. They are more instinctive, more direct, more alive people. They do not like the stricture of society and having to fit in.”
 
“How can we make her shift back?”
 
“I will give your father a potion. It will help him reach the gloom. It is another plane. In that plane, he can search for her and talk her into turning back.”
 
Abiyoe pulled out a small flask of green liquid. The stable boy whispered to the doctor, “aren’t you going to stop him?” The doctor leaned forward and whispered back, “it makes no difference. He will be dead by nightfall either way.” I wanted to punch both of them for talking like that about my father. However, I felt my own helplessness of being an orphan coming up.
 
Abiyoe held the flask to my father’s lips. Father automatically drank. His eyes opened one last time to lock with mine, “I love you, Pierre.” Abiyoe put his hands on the sides of father’s head. His pupils turned upside to disappear. His eyes were pure white.
 
“Pierre, I will tell you what your father sees. It is your job to guide him through the gloom. He can hear you, because you are his blood. He can never shut you out.”
 
“Yes, Abiyoe. What does he see.”
 
There was snow, fresh snow, powdery snow. The sun was bright and glorious. The sky was pure and blue. He was in a mountain forest. His feet were bare. He was treading through the snow with an enterprising mood. The cool snow felt smooth and refreshing to the feet. Walking barefoot was so liberating. The winter landscape was blissful and pristine under the blanket of snow.
 
A big deer or horse appeared from under the pine trees. No, it had a horn on its forehead. It was a unicorn. He looked closer to make sure that it was really a unicorn. He looked at where the horn was connected to the skull to make sure that it was not mounted onto a horse. It was true. It was a true unicorn.
 
“Pierre, the unicorn represents innocent, virgin sexuality,” explained Abiyoe. “The woman represents his innocents to Marc. You have to talk him into letting go off it.”
 
“Papa, let go off the unicorn,” I said sternly.
 
He was fascinated by the unicorn. He reached out his hands to touch its forehead. The unicorn shook his head to invite him to something. It started trotting. He realized it. He started running. His limbs were running so effortlessly like he hadn’t run since a youth. With another swing of the legs, he was running at the speed of a horse. His feet were splattering snow. He reached his arms wide out to enjoy the drag of air from the speed. The unicorn ran by his side. They chased up the mountain.
 
“Pierre, he is too much in love with that woman. He cannot let go. You must talk your father into leaving the unicorn.”
 
“Papa, let go off the unicorn,” I screamed helplessly.
 
The unicorn turned into Jeanine, the girl from the flower store. He hugged her naked body. He was naked. He felt whole, so whole. He cried. He could be himself with her and play. He whispered into her ear, “I will hold you forever.”
 
Abiyoe gently pulled his fingers down father’s face to close his eyes. He had passed. I ran crying. I ran out of the room. I ran past the servants that were trying to catch me with their arms. I ran down the stairs, past the elephant rifle. I ran out of the front door. I ran across the wild flower fields. I ran into the forest. I ran. I kept running. The pain in my side pierced me hard. I kept running. The pain grew worse. I could no longer run I paused. My bare soles were hurting from the stones and broken branches on the ground. I did not know what to do.
 
When the stable master found me, he let me back to the mansion. I followed him docile, because I no longer knew what to do. He put me in my bed. A deep, black, dreamless slumber came over me.
 
The next Sunday, distant relatives and all the neighbors came for the funeral ceremony. The stable master put his big hands on my shoulders. If the weight weren’t there, I would have bolted again to just run and run. I tuned out the slick words of condolences.
 
And then a green butterfly fluttered right in front of my face. I lifted my index finger. It perched on it. I could see it breathe. It was mystical and wonderful, so beautiful. Abiyoe was standing next to me. He leaned forward to whisper into my ear.
 
“That is your father.”
 
I looked at him puzzled.
 
“Listen, he is talking to you.”
 
I do not believe in superstition. However, when I listened very closely, I could hear my father’s voice, “I love you, Pierre.” Tears streamed down my face.
 
“I do not understand.”
 
“Pierre, your father had to die. When your heart is broken, sometimes the only way forward is to die. It’s an emotional death. Struggling against the death will only prolong the suffering. You have to let yourself go to your deepest sadness to move on.”
 
“But Abiyoe, if my father died, did the woman die?”
 
“No, she turned back human, when your father died. Your father recognized her spirit animal and his true recognition set her free to be her true self. However, when the connection ended, she had to become her old self again. Your father had a deeper affection by her then she did by him.”
 
Father butterfly fluttered off into the field of wild flowers.
 


© Copyright 2017 cowboy109. All rights reserved.

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