[F4A] The Phantasm of Modera

In a man’s life, certain moments, far few and between, are punctuated by what can only be described as clairvoyance. A certain profundity that elucidates all that which falls upon the horizon, expelling shadows of doubt until not a lingering memento remained. In those moments, the truth, such as it is, laid bare before their very eyes, presenting itself complex yet simultaneously simplistic in its declaration, one that is betrayed by its very nature, for it confuddles the senses, a truth so simplistic that its mere enunciation confounds its true intentions.


When my husband held our little baby boy in his arms for the very first time, when he cradled him within his arms, I myself had such a moment, and yet, as he looked upon me, he understood, he knew, I knew, that he experienced it too. For it was the kind of thing that could only be understood when left unspoken.


Today he stood aside me at his funeral, that same unspoken truth had once again made itself presently clear. Neither of us shed tears, for none needed to be, we shook hands and observed decorum with attendees, then departed home. The very sky itself had taken an affront to such, and torn asunder, with a bolt and a flash, she began to weep.


Upon our arrival, we hung both of our coats upon the hanger stand, my husband sprawled the car keys across the dining room table and sat quietly. After a brief moment, of silence, he reached for his soles and removed his dress shoes then began to unbutton his shirt slowly, one button at a time, until finally even the buttons on the cuffs were undone. He removed it and placed it upon the back of his chair. His chest was chiseled and his muscles were well defined, years of military service and construction work had left their mark, in more ways than one. I slipped off my black dress and sat on the couch in my black garters, black pantyhose, lacy bra, and panties.


He approached me silently, and placed a kiss upon my lips, then violently, he lifted my entire being upon his shoulder, my legs dangling in his front, my face, firmly planted in the small of his back. I offered little resistance. With a firm grip, he swung the bedroom door open and like so much paperweight he tossed me onto the bed, already shirtless, it took but a moment before his belt buckle was undone and his trousers hit the floor, now that his briefs were off, his hardness was readily apparent, I looked at him, he looked at me, he knew, and I knew, we both knew.


He strode atop me ferociously, more beast than man, he pinned my hands with one movement and tore my undergarments with another, I could not resist, I would not resist. With nary a moment of hesitation, he silently penetrated my depths, perhaps he expected more resistance there than elsewhere, alas, my wet warm folds proved and would prove otherwise. He released my hands, and I ran my fingertips across his muscular chest, feeling the hardness of his abs, an almost profoundly different hardness than the one that now resided within me. He did the same unto my chest, in an almost ancillary fashion.


With baited breath I began to swallow my saliva, as my murmurs and moans became more frequent, my flushed face painting my pale complexion a blush pink, his breathing, in contrast, had become ragged, rough, and irregular, he planted one final kiss upon my lips, placed my hands around his throat, and he mine, our grips began to tighten, slowly but surely, they tightened, like screws bolted into oak wood coffins… our coffins. Yet as the flame of life had begun to snuff out the burning desire for release had ignited in contrast, and such as it was, our story would end, in the giving and taking, of everything.