Mesmerizing sensations...

This is what I'm talking about... The feelings this girl transmits... I cannot help but feel completely in love with her, with her dance... I've been enthralled....

I am yet to find the one that comprehends me the most. I thought I had found her, in all her apparent wisdom and beauty, the simplicity of how she saw things and how she read me, as if a book I were on her hands. A veil it was, a masterful one, to mould me and shape my soul at her own bidding, a well laced attempt at manipulation, messing with one's mind, taking advantage of the many endless flaws that render the walls of my soul weak and frail.

At last I managed to be honest with myself, months after the shadow of the puppeteer has gone away, and ask me what do I really want from life. And in asking this, I have but discovered a few things, which lead me into more and more questions, some that I fear I do not want answered. My professional path is obvious to me, but what about the other paths that lay before me? What about my inner self? What do I want to do of me? These are the ghosts that haunt me everyday ever since I wake up, that side-by-side walk with me the streets of this chaotic city, that whisper in my ear when I least expect it. What am I to be. . . ?

I see examples of what I want to be, everywhere, the stereotype right in front of everyone to see and adore. I see it when I read my favourite books, I watch it on TV in those fashionable series of the present day... But, by work of a phantom that I've yet to discover (but that in reality, doesn't live anywhere but inside my mind) I cannot fathom achieve it. Would it be the same as achieving perfection, I can scarce get my hands around it, grasp it even with my fingernails. A mirage that is unreachable at the range of me arm. No. My (our) nature prevents me to be what I want to be. So all that remains is to be what I am. What is that, do I ask any of you, any of who has been, for the answer is unknown to me.

The biggest, and probably the primal reason for it, reason for which I cannot reach my utopian vision might be the fact that I worship too much the creatures from Venus, those wonderful and yet so lavishly deceiving creatures that attract and dumbfound the minds of men. It all became with a wish to worship what was Beautiful, the intrinsic beauty of the objects, the sceneries, the people, and it all ends up by sexual attraction, that overcomes every other sense, all the other Ideals, that obliterates even who I am. I cannot express myself when in presence of such beings, for they steal from me my Reason, the whole process of thinking first and acting later, in account of the pleasure of their sights, their touch, their voices, their odours... It is as if I am enthralled by them and anything else is reduced to a corner of my mind, apart from the world. It is them who guide me nowadays, even without knowing it, they who steal my thoughts. And in thinking this, I say to myself "You're weak willed and a misery of a man. Unworthy of whatever spiritual level you might want to achieve. You are just another man. Just like everyone else." If only I could become blind to their enticing physical seduction and concentrate my efforts on observing the world as a whole... To get rid of that mundane feeling and to look upon them with a clear sight and clear mind...
All my life I've attempted to be me, to be something unique and unmistakeable, to build away my own world, to place myself where no one has ever been placed. I fail utterly at this. The scent of a woman drives me out of it as surely as a candy does a child. I'm raw on the inside, yet to mature, yet to gain the immunity I need to resist this urge to worship, to appreciate, to love....

And that is what I miss most and what builds this immense hole that I feel and which consumes me even as I write this. I miss the love. I miss the caressing touch, the passionate stares, the forgiving words, the protecting heat.... I am incomplete and I cannot find the missing link, the piece that will make me whole. The thought of it shades my heart and threatens it, turning his potent beat into a weaker version of itself, bringing the joy of life to such a trifle that is barely worth noting. I am not given the permission to love, even the love of friendship is constantly denied, driving me into my cold loneliness, of which I am unable to leave, unable to fight against. A man with so much to give, with such a need to be given, and no one to receive nor trade the feelings. It is dreadful. It is worse than Death.

I used to find haven in reading and in music. The times have changed now. My spirit craves more than that, the haven has become too tiny for me to use it and it just pains me the more I try. The music confuses me and brings memories of which I sometimes don't want to remember. It recreates past moments, past loves, things I had buried in the cemetery of my own garden, only to be exhumed by these lyrics and mesmerizing sounds. Cursed and yet so blessed they are. And in literature, my sanctuary, it is where I see reflected my feelings. I cannot stop reading, yet I can not see the reflection of my own suffering in those words, as if I had become the characters of the story and the story was not theirs but mine!!! Oh, sweet terror that assails me, not even in simple pleasure can I find peace!! Has my mind forsaken it forever? Oh how I wish it to be a lie, a mere lie.

I find small fountains of hope in some friends, in my pets, for they are closer to Mother Nature than they know. I see them as Her sons and daughters, the ones that make me feel one with her. Yet, the moments of freedom out of the bubble of loneliness are short, almost unseen. They make this bubble more and more unbearable as it is, only increasing the craving to have someone come and rescue me. I fear that if it isn't done soon, I might die inside, turn a stone cold rock without feelings and unable to rekindle as the phoenix. I have, however, no one near me who can do it, for this forsaken city is filled with people unsuited to me, whose natural spirit has thoroughly been substituted by the artificial spirit of the modern civilizations, that unkempt thing that drives humans mechanically to their own terrible end, amidst their doomed civilization. To Hell with them and their machinations!

Ah, and all in all, like Marius before me, I've been living a lie. The most perfect lie, for not even its maker knows he's lying. The beauty of it... Lies entwined and braided together, separated by fine threads of life only to be rejoined and linked and knotted together... I've been the most sincere liar I've ever known, specially when telling the truth. The paradox is delightful yet sinful. I ought to change my title to The Deceiver. It would suit me better, really. Who better to be it if not the one who can deceive himself, constantly?

There is Light, oh yes there is. A tiny light that wanders in the horizon of thought, alluring with its warmth. But only time will bring it nearer and that Son doesn't let himself be ruled by any other. It will pass at his own pace, no matter what happens around it. And I wish I could be like it. . .

Conto erótico

Lita preparava-se para dormir. Após um banho reconfortante, vestiu o seu robe e foi até à cozinha para preparar o seu leite quente. Esperava que o micro-ondas acabasse o seu trabalho quando alguém lhe bateu à porta. Espreitou pelo buraquinho construído para o efeito e ficou muito espantada quando Gabriel lhe sorriu. A esta hora? Mordendo o lábio inferior de nervosismo, ela abriu a porta e convidou-o a entrar.
O sorriso de Gabriel era desarmante. Ela sentiu a sua cara enrubescer enquanto ele a olhava e se deleitava com a sua visão, vestida de roupão. Aproximou-se para um abraço e o leve odor a flores do gel de banho de Lita encheu-lhe as narinas, provocando imagens de doces pradarias na sua mente. O cheiro tão agradável e tão convidativo.... O cabelo molhado tocou-lhe ao de leve na cara e ele acariciou-o com ela, roçando levemente a sua face no cabelo e depois na face da sua amada. A face de Lita torna-se mais rubra ainda e um sorriso envergonhado aparece.
O abraço é desfeito e Gabriel cumprimenta-a com um beijo. Um simples e delicado beijo, no canto dos lábios rosados e delicados da doce moça. Um beijo que a inflama por dentro e a faz corresponder, o seu coração apressado batendo-lhe no peito, incitando-a a prosseguir. Os seus lábios unem-se num só, um beijo delicado e suave entre os dois, onde se roçam e partilham o calor um do outro. Suas línguas separam os rosáceos lábios e tocam-se levemente, a saliva mesclando-se e criando um sabor, um odor único deste par, o afrodisíaco mais potente para eles, que os leva a aconchegarem-se mais nos braços de amor um do outro.
Lita recua e sorri, totalmente esquecida do sonoro 'plim' que o micro-ondas produziu e leva Gabriel para o seu quarto. Com um gesto autoritário manda-o sentar-se na cama, olhando para si. Por vezes isto acontecia. Uma mudança súbita na sua maneira de ser, como se outra mulher, mais experiente, se apoderasse dela e do seu corpo. O seu olhar envergonhado passou a um atrevido, pálpebras entreabertas e a olhar de soslaio. Os seus movimentos tornaram-se predatórios e calculados, arrastando-se lentamente pelo seu robe em direção ao nó que o apertava. Com um leve movimento hipnótico de ancas, as suas mão desatam o nó do roupão, levando a que este automaticamente caia dos seus ombros em direção ao chão, revelando a sua nudez.
O seu corpo bronzeado e pequeno e proporcional, como que torneado por um grande artista, move-se sensualmente em direção a Gabriel, que sorri com prazer e se recosta na cama. Os seios redondos e pequenos pendurados no seu peito olham para ele, provocando-o com os seus pequenos saltos e com a forma dos seus mamilos apontando para ele. No meio das pernas dela, um pequeno, quase minúsculo, tufo de pêlos que o convida e provoca. O cheiro de Lita chega-lhe às narinas e activa a sua libido, aumentando o seu desejo exponencialmente.

Lita aproxima-se a passos lentos e debruça-se sobre o seu amado, beijando-o louca e languidamente, as suas línguas numa dança frenética e sensual, aumentando o calor dentro do quarto. As mãos dele exploram o corpo desnudo da ninfa que se apodera dele, percorrendo cada curva do seu torso e abdómen até chegar aos seus quadris e, finalmente, à sua fonte de prazer, que jaz húmida e morna, apetecível e sedutora. Lita geme levemente e continua, forçando-o a deitar-se. Recua do beijo e desce no corpo, as suas mãos encontrando o caminho até à pele e afastando as roupas para cima inicia um percurso tortuoso por ela acima, tal formiga subindo uma árvore, levando os pedaços de tecido consigo até que estes saiam e sejam atirados algures para o lado da cama. Lita deixa os seus seios tocarem levemente no peito de Gabriel, a mínima sensação que provoca espasmos de prazer pelos seus másculos músculos peitorais. Continua beijando o peito musculado do seu homem, auxiliada pelas pontas dos seus dedos que o percorrem e procuram a humidade da sua boca, a aspereza das suas mãos, a rijeza do seu abdómen e finalmente o botão das suas calças.

Mais uma mudança de personalidade e Lita torna-se selvagem, atirando-se às calças dele com voracidade e arremessando-as para o fundo do quarto com violência, numa ânsia de o ver nu. Com movimentos rápidos e certeiros o consegue, parando por momentos para o observar num todo, o seu pénis rijo e erecto, todos os seus músculos bem tonificados e brilhantes do suor que começa a aparecer. Gabriel aproveita para se recompor e levantar, abraçando de novo Lita e tomando ele o poder. Pega nela ao colo e deita-a na cama, ao longo de um apaixonado beijo. Os seus corpos encostam-se e sentem-se, deixando ambos loucos e ávidos de prazer, querendo mais e mais um do outro. Os seus beijos tornam-se vorazes, quase canibais, tal a ânsia de se possuírem, de se terem, de serem um só! As mãos dela acariciam-lhe a lança, as dele nadam no rio de fluidos que ela agora produz de tanta excitação.

Num movimento fluido, ele penetra-a, levando tudo a uma paragem momentânea, em que tudo o que importa são aqueles milímetros em que ele avança sobre ela, onde o barco atraca na praia. Nada mais importa. O fôlego retorna a aparecer, quase magicamente, e uma nova dança começa, uma dança repetitiva, que cria uma onda crescente de prazer em ambos os corpos que agora são unos e que se movimentam a um mesmo ritmo. Ouve-se a música de gemidos e arfados, um crescendo quase Clássico, a derradeira música da paixão. A acção torna-se progressivamente frenética, as duas almas prontas a unirem-se numa explosão de prazer, que se inicia subitamente, levando a movimentos espasmódicos que retiram o ar dos seus pulmões, deixando-os rendidos aos tremores que os assolam quando a energia se vai e se dissipa no final do acto.

Esgotados, trocam olhares cansados e apaixonados, breves carícias nas suas caras e inocentes beijos que os enternecem e, suavemente, os fazem deslizar para o mundo dos sonhos.....

Dusk, Daughter of the Desert

There are stories of those that wander the desert. Not wander. They battle the desert. People lost in their grief, pain, madness, which only goal is to meet their final opponent. The one who will finally set their goal, finalize their meaning of life. Dusk has been one of these people for several years now.

A child of the desert she has ever been. Born of a nomadic love, in an oasis near its rim, Lianna Sandwind was the brightest happening of that year. Marked by several sandstorms that ruined their plantations, the coming of a new child gave new mirth to the oasis-dwellers and gave them hope, for it was a sign of better times. And more: elves seldom have children in such environment. For her to be born was a sigh of adaptation, certainly good fortune.

And so it was that that year was easier to survive by. Merchant caravans ended up by finding the oasis, giving it all the inhabitants needed for sustenance. Master of arms came too and one of them stayed, improving the oasis defense skill. The oasis grew and prospered and life became easier. Until the tides changed several decades passed.

None could predict what happened. Nothing pointed to it. Everyone was caught by surprise. The orcs came. Ruthless, merciless, savage. They passed everyone by the sword, leaving no soul behind. Or so they thought. A lone girl appeared from under a sand hole. Her parents had put her there, hidden by her golden locks and golden dress, undistinguishable from the sand around her. A single tear fell from her eyes, as she gazed upon the destruction and the flames that caressed their homes. At age seventy, a youngster by elven standards, Lianna found herself having to survive in the inhospitable desert, the killer of all, the unforgiving one. Her only possessions were a fine sword given by the master of arms, her scouting gear that she was only to wear a few years later and an amulet with her family’s crest on it. Wearing it all, she parts off her native land, where she was born and lived and went to face the desert.

He wasn’t kind and never forgiving, but he was also her mentor and trainer, her professor and father, the training grounds that honed her skills every day. Years passed and Lianna grew into a woman, changed. Lianna was but a mere memory in the back of her mind. She was Dusk, a relentless desert huntress and sellsword, aiming for the hardest challenges she could muster, facing and laughing in front of Death. It is but her mere companion. And the desert. Always the desert. The mentor that never left her, never disappointed her.

No orcs crossed her way that didn’t get their throats slitted. No giant scorpion remained unchallenged wherever she may go. Her sword glitters with the setting sun, her eyes burn with a dark desire of death that never comes, her body speaks of menace and deadly accuracy.

She is the Daughter of the Desert.