The Shortest Night

Summer came along in fits and starts. Uncertain as to its place in this world, as so many of us are. There were days of promise, only for that promise to be glibly broken or gently wasted. Tears of rain darkening spirits with yet another rude betrayal. The deceit was wholesale. When Summer finally arrived, there were myriad complaints of the stifling heat and lack of respite from the intensity of the smiling assassin sun. Anticipation building, a triumphal moment of climax followed by guilt and regret. One of life’s many cycles and patterns. A drag net of pain and misbehaviour that few ever try to disentangle themselves from. The best they ever have are the moments where they forget that net and live a fantasy of illusory freedom from the pain of life.

This Summer was the stuff of dreams. Anyone over the age of consent talked of the legendary Summer’s of old. Cherishing hose pipe bans, swimming in muddy rivers and the taste of ice cream delivered to the road side by old vans playing tinny nursery rhymes. A macabre soundtrack to distorted memories. The discomfort of sleepless nights in the unrelenting muggy heat artfully edited out.

Kirsty loved this Summer like no other. There was a quiet focus about her, as though she were working upon a life-changing project. I could not discern the shape of it, but deep down I knew it was there. I left it well alone, telling myself that if she was happy, then so was I. I basked in the warmth of whatever it was that was amusing her.

Then she dropped the regular but no less painful bombshell. She had a work trip to Sweden. These trips were a part of her job, but no less a surprise. I began to feel the pending emptiness even before she left our home. I never told her I missed her. That would be unfair. Instead I bade her a good trip and told her I looked forward to her return. I always made an effort when she came back. Adhering to my code of not telling her I missed her. Displaying my appreciation for her instead. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t bake her a cake. I never crowded her. I held her in my arms and made sure she knew she was back home, safe and loved. I attended to the so-called small acts that are a part of the language of love. And when it came to making love, I made up for lost time, exploring every inch of her body and sending her wild before the main act. I always got off on the sight, sound and feel of her building pleasure.

To say something was different when she returned from Sweden would be to state one of life’s truths. We inhabit an invisible river. No moment is the same as another. The interruption to our flow required us to reacquaint ourselves with the strands of a life that was. Reconnect with each other and the harmony of a life we had built together. This time something significant had changed. I had no value judgement for it. It was neither bad or good. We make things harder for ourselves with such arbitrary nonsense. I was intrigued with the change. Another shape that was there in the absences of what was. Not a hole exactly. Not for Kirsty anyway.

The flow of the river swept us onwards and I busied myself with the mundanities. Telling myself that all would become clear. That everything was fine. Business as usual, in a business that specialised in the unusual. Lying to myself so I could create a subterfuge of comfort. Telling myself that the changes to Kirsty’s behaviours were improvements. Cutting the questions arising from my natural curiosity off with concrete statements. This was better. This was how it went. People changed as life went on. Lack of change would be the worry.

That I didn’t ask about Sweden was also a worry. There was fear for me there. Kirsty had come back from the trip happier and brighter. I resented that. Moreover, the source of it scared me. I was jealous. I didn’t want to lose her. I was already going about losing her.

All the same, as the heat of that Summer built towards the equinox, I was drawn towards Kirsty’s new found energy. And eventually, she started telling me about the customs and rituals that the Swedes in the village she’s visited observed. It had been too soon for the festival, but they were excited to share the details and I felt that excitement as Kirsty recounted the stories from her trip.

Always, she told the stories as we lay in the Summer heat, unsure as to whether we would ever find sleep and rest. Almost too hot to touch. To move. Laying there in a strangely exhausted but untired state. Side by side, looking up at a ceiling that represented the potential nothingness of our existence.

I would be lulled into a passive state, and then she would begin to speak. I have always loved the sound of her words and I responded as soon as I heard her. Listening intently. Thrilling to the sound of her. There would follow the lightest of touches that soon became insistent. I would will her on. Wanting what I knew would come next. Her moving closer. Her head on my chest. Or near my ear. Lips brushing my flesh. Followed by kisses punctuating her words.

Sleep found me each night as she recounted the picking of certain flowers. Finding figures woven from plants and flowers under her pillow. Dances. Simple white dresses worn by both the men and the women of the village. The material so fine they left nothing to the imagination.

Occasionally I would ask questions. I don’t think she ever answered them. Continuing on with the stories that were in the end, just one story. The words an enchanting spell that I gave myself over to.

I slept yet I became increasingly tired. This did not surprise me. The heat slows a person down. Boiling the energy from them. I found a second wind when we went to bed though. My body yearned for Kirsty, but in the weeks leading up to the Summer solstice, I seldom sated that particular hunger.

And so the anticipation built. Her story of how Summer should truly be celebrated building and building to a crescendo that I was a part of now. I think I knew by then that there was no going back. There would be a celebration. I wanted that. I could see how excited Kirsty was. There was a promise of pleasure beyond anything I had experienced. Waiting for that. Waiting for her. It was mind blowing. It got to a point where I could think of nothing else. My mind crowded with thoughts of Kirsty. But always with the rituals and the quirks she had recounted. I imagined her in a see through dress and could barely contain myself.

When the strange corn dollies started appearing under my pillow I swallowed down my unease and told myself they were a sign of affection. Still there was a cold snake of fear and doubt that writhed in my belly. Adeptly, I dismissed that feeling, calling it stupid.

My sleep seemed deep. Yet I sensed that it was fitful. I began to recall strange dreams of a dark shape in the bedroom. It drew towards me as I lay there in shock and fear, but when I tried to move I could do nothing more than reach an arm out to it weakly. Nor could I call out. I was paralysed. Whether in fear or not was immaterial. The terror I recalled was in itself debilitating.

The mornings brought more weakness and I discovered insect bites on my chest, arms, thighs and neck. Asking Kirsty about them brought a blank look and a simple explanation of her lack of bites; insects favour some victims over others. Her response sent a chill through me. I was excited by that chill. Excited by her.

Such was my growing excitement that I began to have vivid dreams of Kirsty. These were interspersed with the dreams of the dark figure. I focused upon these dreams. I wanted Kirsty so much that I was fantasising about her now. I suspected I was sated in those dreams, but when I awoke my hunger for her was all the more extreme. Dreaming of food, but not eating.

Always, there was an alure to her. She would stand at the foot of the bed and stare at me until I was deeply aroused. Nothing more than that stare of hers. Her eyes telling me all I wanted to know. Once I was trembling with desire, she would move around the bed. Drawing closer to me. Biting her lip and moaning with desire, she would lift her dress ever so slowly upwards. Tantalising. Teasing. When she began pleasuring herself I was thrumming with exquisite pleasure. Wanting her, but not wanting to break the spell. As she began to orgasm she would lean over me. Kissing me deeply. I could remember little else after that.

Those last Summer days before the solstice were long and they dragged. I took a few days off work. My heart wasn’t in it. I sat and stared at a screen as though I was half-heartedly attempting to hypnotise it. It felt like hours passed, but when I checked the time I was still only an hour into the working day.

Living for the nights. Our going to bed. Her sweet, sultry voice and the dreams that would follow. She began telling me of visitations in the night. These mirrored the dreams I was experiencing and all this did was heighten my arousal. Seeing this, she would slip her hand down my chest and belly and stroke me as she embellished her own erotic dreams. I could barely contain myself crying out as she took me over the edge.

My dreams now blurred and became one. Kirsty. The dark shape. Her fabricated erotic tales. Tales that became more and more outlandish. I didn’t care when she began to incorporate others into the dream. My focus was Kirsty. Always Kirsty. And her pleasure. Our pleasure. Giving myself over to our mutual pleasure. Giving myself to her.

Two days prior to the solstice I awoke in the early hours in discomfort. I looked down and saw a woven bracelet on my right wrist. Droplets of my blood had stained the white sheet we used as a blanket in this cloying heat. I gasped with the pain of it. My wrist was throbbing as though I’d been bitten by a serpent and I fancied that the brambles interweaved in this strange bracelet were digging in tighter as though they were the teeth in a hungry mouth. I think I tried to pull it away from me. My vision swam and I was gone. Returned to the unconsciousness of a fitful sleep.

Later, I drifted into consciousness and became aware of movement. This time when I looked down, I saw Kirsty lapping at my wrist. Of the painful bracelet, there was no sign. But there were smears of blood that Kirsty was licking gently. Her hand slipped downwards and found me. I groaned with pleasure and abandoned myself to the pleasure of it.

In the morning, I inspected my wrist only to find the familiar landscape of unbroken skin, hair and blue veins. The sheet was unblemished. I turned to the sleeping Kirsty and fancied I saw a smile flicker across her red lips. That was when I knew it was real. All of it. But I didn’t care. I loved Kirsty and we were together. That was all that mattered.

On the penultimate night, Kirsty told me the most elaborate of her stories. As the words flowed from her she became increasingly aroused and her arousal was my focus. I barely heard the words, it was more that I consumed them. Enjoyed their taste and the way they felt. The way she felt. She talked of sex and of death. A sacrifice that must be made on the solstice. Visitors to her room. Coaxing and seducing her until she would have done anything with them and for them. Their touch electrifying her as they gently led her from her room and out into the woods. The feel of tree bark against her bare skin. Delirious with pleasure as she was lain down in the sweet grasses of a woodland clearing and surrounded by exploring fingers and hungry mouths.

As the story unfolded, she straddled me and breathed the words into my ear. Her lips brushing my neck. As we reached the climax of her story and our pleasure I felt her teeth against my neck. Her fingers digging into my wrists. The impossible weight of her pinning me. I was terrified. I experienced more pleasure than I ever thought possible.

Unusually, I did not awaken at all that night and in the morning I recalled no dreams. I wondered whether I dreamt some or all of our passion. Looking in the mirror as I cleaned my teeth, I saw no mark on my neck. I saw past the pallid tone of my skin. I ignored my lack of energy. Only coming alive when I lay with Kirsty each night. Living only for that.

On the day of the solstice, Kirsty made me a fruit based drink that she’d discovered in Sweden. She handed it to me in a mug. It was ruby red and murky. I asked what was in it, she shrugged, smiled and bade me try it. The initial taste was a shock. Bitter, metallic and unlike anything that had ever passed my lips. I paused, but Kirsty was there at my side and tipping the mug upwards, urging me to drink it all. I barely remember her leading me to the bedroom, all I recall is her telling me to rest as I needed my strength for what was to come.

The day was lost to me. I have never slept a day away in my life. I awoke to Kirsty’s tender ministrations. Brought from slumber in the most glorious of ways. By the time I was half awake I wanted her with a passion. As I made my intentions clear, she withdrew and told me to wait. That there was so much more to come. I looked into her eyes, seeking some meaning. Answers to questions that fell away before they could be answered. I lost myself in her gaze.

When they came into the room I remained locked in her reassuring gaze. I felt them more than saw them. Their hands guiding me. Many hands and a sea of the white dresses Kirsty had described. I was naked though. That did not feel right as I was taken out of the house and walked away from what I found myself thinking of as sanctuary. I was a passenger now. I had no control and no idea of what awaited me other than what Kirsty had described.

The hands stroked me gently. My back. My chest. The nape of my neck. Hands everywhere. Insistent. Urging me onwards. Into woodland I had never walked before. My bare feet should have sent messages of pain as I trod on sharp twigs, but instead I felt pulses of pleasure. Increasing waves of pleasure and a growing anticipation of what lay ahead.

The clearing was backlit by a blue light. Tonight would not go fully dark. The sights and sounds of this place confused me. I was near home and yet I was far away. As far from home as it was possible to be. Those gathered in the clearing were pale skinned and intense. Their dresses really were completely see-through. I searched for Kirsty and as though summoning her, she stepped forth and smiled as she approached me. In her hands she held a wreath woven from brambles. A sharp and wicked looking thing. I did not understand Kirsty’s intent until she was stood before me holding the wreath aloft. A wreath that was a crown.

When she began to chant words I could not understand I moved to prevent what was about to happen. But my wrists were suddenly held fast. At first I felt the inhuman grip Kirsty had exerted the night before, then something writhed within that grip. Biting. Cutting. Living brambles wrapping themselves around me. Binding me. The same sensation around my ankles, thighs and arms. Tightening and pulling until I felt the bark of a great oak tree chaffing my back and my buttocks.

Kirsty brought the crown down upon my head. Rivulets of blood mingled with my tears. Tears of confusion. Tears of betrayal. But when I looked into her eyes all I wanted was her. All I wanted was this.

“Are you mine?” she asked simply.

I wanted to say no. I wanted to protest. I wanted to tell her to stop. Then she kissed me. Kissed me hard. Kissed me like she wanted to consume me. Pressing herself against me. Hot. Hungry. Wanting me. I felt her arousal as she moved against me. Her hand cupping the back of my head. Pulling away to gaze into my eyes once more. My blood on her lips. Licking those lips hungrily.

“Are you mine?” she whispered. Her hand stroking me against her.

“Yes,” I gasped as my pleasure overcame everything else.

She smiled and a low moan of wanting escaped her lips, then she lowered her head to my neck and I felt first her lips and her tongue, then her teeth pressing against my skin. Entering me. Taking me. As I groaned an acceptance, they all closed in. Their hungry mouths finding me. Creatures of the shortest night.