Page 20 of The Jester

“Kayan...” Her voice ripples through the air, teasing it into whispers that land on my skin and torture me. She is in front of the fire, wearing a burgundy dress that skims her hips and accentuates her waist.

Her hair is tied up, and my lips part hungrily with the knowledge it will soon be hanging down around her porcelain shoulders.

The boy appears. Over a century old but still every bit a boy in his demeanour. Floppy hair, eager grin. He pulls her towards him and kisses her deeply. She melts into the kiss, and sighs deeply.

Then, there it is, his hand going up to the back of her neck, tugging her hair loose, and watching it cascade down her back. He pauses, staring at her as though she is the most precious thing he has ever encountered, a gem or a jewel he wants desperately to caress but is scared of breaking.

Studying them, it is clear she is the one with the power. She bites her lower lip with a sinfully playful smile, then reaches back and unlaces her dress.

Kayan stands back and watches her. The outline of his cock is visible behind the fabric of his pants, but he doesn’t touch it. He just watches her.

Slowly, she peels her dress down over her shoulders. She is wearing no underwear, and when she steps out of the dress and casts it aside, her body is gloriously, completely, exposed.

Firelight kisses the curve of her hips. She cups her breasts for him, then slips one hand down to part her lips. Her eyes widen as she begins to play with herself. Still, he watches.

His wings flutter slowly, curling in the air. She kneels in front of him, and opens her mouth. Stunned, the fool simply stands there, until she teases him with a twerk of her eyebrows and gestures for him to remove his pants.

When he thrusts his cock into her mouth, it is done with tenderness, and I can tell she could take it harder. Wants it harder.

She tries to encourage it, bracing her hands on his hips and pulling him deeper into her, but he stops, leans down, and kisses her instead.

Frustration bubbles inside me. He is treating her like a delicate flower, a precious and fragile creature. But she wants more than that. She needs more than that.

Slowly, he lies down beside her. He kisses her forehead and smooths the hair from her face, and although this may not be what she needs in order to propel her to the heights of pleasure she deserves, she seems suddenly and completely content.

He fucks her gently, lovingly. His tongue roams her body. His hands skim her perfect skin. But she is the fire. She is the one who nibbles the edges of his wings, grabs his wrists and holds them above his head while she plunges down onto him, takes him to the edge of pleasure, then stops.

As they approach their climax, I brace myself.

Not for her pleasure, but for his pain.

He is on top of her. Her legs are wrapped around him, one hand on her clit, one on his chest. Right above his heart. She stares into his eyes. Her lips part with a high-pitched moan. He moans too. They are moving in unison, playing to each other’s rhythm. She tilts her head back, digs her fingernails into his chest. Moans louder.

He thumps the rug with his fist, next to her head. His body tenses. Her hand quickens, making harder and faster circles that pull deep coils of arousal from her core.

Her body shakes. Her wings glow. An orgasm washes over her, trickling through her body. He cries out, and she moans in response because she thinks it’s a cry of release. When she realises it’s not, she tries to push him off her, but a bright white light surges from beneath her palm, fusing her skin to his.

She tries to scramble away, free herself, free him, but she can’t.

A blue light bursts from his body, emanating from every pore, consuming the oxygen around them until they’re both struggling to breathe. His wings glow brighter too. Bluer and bluer until there is another, final, burst of light.

He collapses forward.

She lies beneath him, panting, trembling. She pulls her arm free, the contact broken, and pushes him away. He rolls onto his back.

His eyes are grey. She calls his name but he doesn’t answer. She tries to help him up and, finally, gets him to stand. But he still isn’t speaking. She grabs a blanket, wraps it around him, then pulls on her dress without fastening it.

“We’re going to get you some help,” she whispers. “Maura will know what to do.”

Kayan does not reply.

As they stumble past me, I retreat into the shadows.

Before the door closes, I catch a glimpse of their wings. His, limp and pale. Almost translucent. And hers... still vibrant, and purple, and strong. But now tinged with the slightest hint of blue.

The blue shimmers, undulates beneath the surface, filling the gaps between her veins. Then it disappears.

And so does she.

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