TERRA-PY (From Darxination, Chapter 9)
Fragrances weighed heavier as they walked, hand in hand, along dormant gardens in these Elysian Fields on Terra. But each paradisiac garden had a pearly jewel house to show.
Summer’s spirit, veiled in evening silks, lowered over the fairy-tale street in the ancient Jewish quarter. So ethereal a veil it made the sky so present, a benevolent mute witness.
“We’re here,” Marcus announced.
“Which house?”
“This enchanting venerable with the sculptured wood portal.”
“So archaic?”
Estera sounded surprised, but in an auspicious vein, which invited Marcus’s introductory pitch. Upon second impulses, he altered it slightly, made it softer. “A little princess once lived here. Her father’s princess, a naturalized noble who erected this palazzo for her.”
“Was he rich?”
“The richest banker in town.”
“Then why didn’t he erect the house higher—a two-storied one, for instance?”
“See the adjacent building? That was the regal main body, while this abode is a separate lower wing.”
“I see… The servants’ quarter, perhaps. I learned from my father about these old properties.”
. . .
Terra-py
“Stay here, don’t move.” Marcus crossed the room to turn the light on, then rejoined Estera.
He plastered his wholesome frame to her back, coiled his arms around her shoulders, placed his palms on her chest, and directed her body a few steps away. First backwards, then sideways, until their twinned bodies faced the mirror.
Although she was tense, Marcus won her over—the proud lightbulbs above screamed victory. Estera’s stiffness receded, shared peace loomed.
Her well-rounded face, so precious, so fresh, big-eyed, plump-lipped. That dark brown lush hair. Man, this wholesome, beautiful package, so true, faced him in the tall mirror, between his actual arms. This young woman, Estera, was throbbing between his sinewy limbs, throbbing against his chest, throbbing a wealth of female buttocks against his manhood of steel.
Marcus closed his eyes and crashed her warm female construction harder against his frame. He cared no more about her looks, or the look in her eyes.
Es-terra, he thought. “Es-terra,” he said. “Esta es tierra mia.” He renewed his embrace, still harder. Estera cemented in him. Now, that was terra-py.
“Wait,” she said in a feeble voice. “You’re hurting me.”
But Estera had to enjoy that embrace. Marcus would not have her play any stupid game of female pretense. Not with him. She should stay real.
Eyes still shut, his head resounded of Nina’s melody on his mobile—so mock-Cuban, as Nina deserved. He chose the ring tone to suit her—Nina-like.
Marcus was now raking his brain for anything Cuban to choose for Estera’s calls. Nothing came.
Tierra del Fuego
Her body was threshing against his, wriggling, to illusive Cuban moderate wild rhythms. His affection for her changed target. The large hips, fleshy halves of her bottom, stony, undulating now and pulsing with raw life, hammering, quivering.
“Es tierra mia,” he whispered into her ear. “Tierra del Fuego,” he said in a stentorian voice.
Estera burst into a wild fit of laughter.
Wild, yet so genuine, so sincere. The girl must have found a palpable reason for that. Estera was a natural, hardcore woman, as true and dependable as a plot of land. She was both tierra and fuego, everything a man needed to feel secure and thrive.
He loosened her up. “What have I said to make you laugh, dear Estera?”
“The way you talk…”
The girl’s words came in staccato waves, though, since she was short of breath. Estera couldn’t stop laughing.
He cleaved her cemented body off his. The mirror witnessed their split reflections, nonplussed. “What’s funny about my pitch?” Marcus asked.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean that, to chuckle, I mean chortle, please.”
“Terra, stop. I’m not mad at you or anything, it’s just that I value everything you do. Or say, for Christ’s sake. You surely act as you do for a well-grounded reason. For me, you are the reasonable woman, understand?”
“Tierra and fuego, come on, what’s got into you?”
“Sorry?”
“What’s tierra and fuego?”
“You don’t know? I’ve seen you know a fat bunch of things, more elevated than these patty basics.”
“I know tierra, know fuego, I know Tierra del Fuego, but where do I come into this scorching picture?”
“Never mind. Terra is a sacred soil in my vision, a sole-on ardent-core symbol. I’ll show you when the right time arrives. Guess it’s not now.”
Celia
“Marcus, you could make a top writer, from word-stuffed literary basics to poetic encrypted analysis. I’m serious, you touch essences.”
“I know you’re serious. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have invited you here. I climb rocky peaks beside you, each minute higher.”
“Thank you.”
“Your stellar power then sends me to depths—each ravine, deeper.”
“Your poetic vein confounds me, tickles the cilia on my skin.”
“Oh, your imaginary stand-in. Celia, this haloing poetess, inspires utmost admiration in me.”
“I referred to fine hairs, the sensitive ones, our skin’s poets. Thanks, anyway, for perceiving my Celia, the invisible double.”
“You could just as well say my name.”
“Alright, thank you, Marcus.”
“Estera, your Celia made my day.”
“And you, my night.”
. . .
Photo by Korabkova – Envato Elements
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