More Tales From The Machine, or, At Luke's Bidding

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Her tattoo was a slow, elegant waltz. It stirred languidly from the nape of her neck, and flowed over the curve of her shoulder, following her spine to the sacrum. As her sleeping form shifted, the ink caught the dawn light creeping through the shutters and shimmered like scales.
The intricacy of the design whispered of deliberate hours of pain, a masochistic bent that appealed to Luke. On some level, she must have been aware that he was watching; they all were. He exhaled softly onto the part of her ankle left exposed by the sable sheets, the taut skin prickling in response. Luke imagined the nervous system reacting as a glassy lake would a fallen feather, sending ripples through her. It may not have been enough to wake her, but he knew her dreams would take a sudden shift. Seconds later, he saw his thoughts echoed in the slight parting of her lips, and the sound of pale thighs rubbing beneath dusky cotton.
There was no logical reason why he should prefer titian to blonde, flawed to flawless. The outcome was always the same. And yet this figure roused him, as with the faint tingle of an amputated limb. Androgyny was certainly no blessing. Luke began pacing at the foot of the bed, the tips of his fingers touching in perfect geometry. Nubilous eyes took in the contents of the bedroom, strange trinkets and meanings that proved elusive. He was mildly puzzled at the lack of wall ornaments; a singular painting hung above the bed, a mess of colour that could have been a landscape, or perhaps a frustrated effort to mimic emotion. On the nightstand, a colourless photo of a city skyline like needles to space, a city that seemed somehow sad. She'd left the hi-fi on, the speakers efflorescing a low, throbbing beat into the silence between them. Luke moved toward the velvet shape of her head on the pillow, gliding his fingers along undeviating legs to her back, cupping her toward him.
He folded into her like water to a vessel, his lips on hers the rich, dark taste of coffee. Her skin burnt against his, and her eyes flashed open. But not startled; rapt. And though the sheets began to turn to ash, Luke could feel her legs lock around him.
After all, he was no Angel.

7 Responses to “More Tales From The Machine, or, At Luke's Bidding”

  1. Anonymous kyknoord 

    ...and she was no Buffy.

  2. Anonymous forgottenmachine 

    Firstly, I think you will all agree that I am the better man for not deleting the above comment when I have the facility to do so. Or should that be 'a not that smart' man......

    Secondly, let it be known that KN is a bastard. Albeit a witty one.

    Thirdly, the next person to make a Buffy quip will be forced to listen to a compilation tape of Engish Pastoral Hymns as interpreted by the Clan Bush Folk Singers.

    That is all.

  3. Anonymous Lukewhatever 

    Er ... phew! AlRIGHT. And then wha' 'appened? Tease.

  4. Anonymous anne 


  5. Anonymous Lukewhatever 

    When this comment eventually posts (tomorrow, next week?) ...
    I did not see any vampires in this story, sorry ... but there are some subliminal references I definitely caught straight off.
    This was a wonderful word puzzle. Thanks.
    Now you can write about squirrels. :)

  6. Anonymous Parenthesis 

    Kyknoord has the saying of it .... :-p

  7. Anonymous Parenthesis 


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