Bloodfellow Books One Separation and Two Transformation

Bloodfellow Books One and Two Saved Here

Bloodfellow - Book One - Separation
By Abraham R. Nox (A/K/A Gwendolyn Nicklaus)
Copyright 1995

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THE KING OF WANDS AND THE FIVE OF CUPS
SECTION 1
1
In the mouth of the wolf!
And may the wolf die!
-Italian expression for good luck

It could be achieved if one persevered. Transformation fueled by the immortal imagination. Creation out of desperation. Blood into wine. Cowardice into courage. Storms out of collisions. Children from fusion. Fantasy from delusion. Miracles out of madness.
A woman out of wishes.

Rare thunder tattooed a serious intrusion along the periphery of his concentration. Secreted within the third level of the strangely constructed Castel del Monte, Wolf O'bellod wills his senses to ignore the storm's husky, insistent voice. He dare not imagine sensuous fingers of rain caressing his body, for Sex and Nature, so near aligned for the living, have no place in the erotic scripts of so unnatural a being. His sexual experience must evolve only from within his mind.

He lies prone upon a makeshift pallet of luxurious fabric remnants, naked as truth, masturbating to remembered music. Delightful Celtic melodies---songs no modern ear has ever heard---decorate and enhance his passion play, and he smiles as he romances his fantasy through the music, like a lover guiding to a bedroom.
Ah, how he loves music, the electric flow in is movement, the periodic rapture. He can relate to these pleasing collisions of sympathetic vibrations. 'Tis rhythm intercourse, after all.
Suddenly he draws in his breath. The sounds remind him of something, but he cannot determine what exactly. But then his thoughts are interrupted by a harp's haunting dialogue and he strains to listen, his damaged eyes roving beneath ivory lids. His finger tips begin to tingle -- a tactile oracle, a prelude to visitation -- while his elegant hands steadily work the column of his erection.
A memory arrives unbidden, a Sumerian dancer once his lover, her fawn legs again living flesh, her movements fluent in the language of passion. She dances for him alone, ankle bells singing, brown arms searching the poetry of space for agreeable rhythms. Her revealing garments rustle as she approaches. He can once again smell her enticing odor, a pungent fusion of sweat and sandalwood.
When she is within a few feet, she pauses and offers him a gaze of pure adoration before once again resuming her undulation, a mournful lute accompanying each step of her powdered feet, each thrust of hip, thigh, breast. Under heavily kholed lids, her eyes glitter at him like new promises. Though she has been dead for thousands of years, tonight he has provided a vector through which she may again suffuse with life, and dance for his captivated heart.
Midnight strokes and departs, easy as breath. Alone in the castle, tenantless for ages, Wolf continues to embellish his vision, one hand pumping his alien genitals, the other cushioning his head. His titanium white hair is as dense as hemp and flows nearly to his waist. Claret red eyes flutter open, unfocussed with lust. Despite the El Greco paleness his skin flushes as his orgasm foments, desire making a mockery of his usual dignified bearing. Potent blood washes through his system, platelets vigorous with renewal, his veins rich with pirated cargo, the vital blood of others.
Rain-laced moonlight infiltrates the Gothic windows high in the castle's west wall, illuminating him -- this albino mythic satyr engorged by his lust, his legends and his gory recollections, both beautiful and barbaric. Lust was raping him now, his perfect control dismissed by the final stampede of sperm before release. Staring at the marble dome overhead, he sees only a Sumerian enchantress constructed of vibration and longing and he arches his pelvis to impale her.

Bagpipes expand and expire, breathing their frequencies inside his head, the harp music like female finger nails, plucking translucent grapes of sound, feeding him sweetness, then moving to circle his pink nipples, now lightly raking over his belly, his loins, now composing half-notes of agony into his bare back. Shivers of sex current plummeted to his balls and a thread of fire tightens around his penis and began to pull...
His legs part like a compass, body arched in a bow of ecstasy. Face contorted, he roars, grasping his spurting cock while the bare castle walls echo his cry of satisfaction, his own personal sex chorus.
As if responding to his personal release, the storm suddenly ruptures the night sky with sizzling fingers of lightening and then, just as abruptly, the downpour ceased. For several minutes a temporary peace reigns over Wolf's body. They pass in utter silence while he struggles to contend with a host of hypnogogic images surging up from his lengthy past. The ashes of dead adventures, accusations of former lovers, buried and forgotten cities, abandoned covenants, are all preserved intact by his flawless memory.
The visions wave on and on through his mind in random sequence, divorced from their original emotional context, disassociated from their proper time. Wolf does not understand why he is thinking of these things now, in the aftermath of passion. There must be a meaning in such hauntings but he is too relaxed and lethargic now to pursue the mystery. It is easier to submit, and allow his mind to unroll its scroll of fantasia.
Grateful to be gifted with the visual imagination by which he sires his exotic fantasies, Wolf does not begrudge his brain the occasional rebellion. He has learned to drift along with the motion of the memories until the last brilliant detail has faded away.
But this time the reverie serves him a face he is sure he had never seen before -- that of a middle aged man, bent over a sheeted corpse, talking. Wolf can smell the astringent chemicals of preservation burning in his nostrils, and he clearly hears the man utter the word, "Murder," in the English tongue. Wolf wonders if the dead man on the table was one of his victims. Why else would he be receiving this odd vision? He squints in vain, curious to know who lies upon the examination table, but the identity of the man remained unclear. Before he can dwell further on the hallucination and its meaning, another face forms and steals his attention.
Ah, this is a picture much improved, Wolf thinks. A woman! He feels a tug in his groin at the sight of her full and kissable mouth, her luscious face framed in lurid curls and her skin, it was like . . . like--- He narrows his eyes again, hoping to provoke a simile for her pale and luminous flesh but then she, too, vanishes.
"Disorderly ghost!" he laments. "She will not even stay long enough to inspire my lust!"
His fists clench in frustration and he begins to fear for his sanity. Who were these persons? They were not known to him. Has he finally gone mad, as so many of his own always claimed he would? He has been alone for so long that he can no longer tell man from myth, haunt from dream!
And then another face arrives to confound him -- that of a young boy. Shouting, weeping, the freckle-faced child reaches toward him. The apparition is so authentic Wolf cries out, his deep voice echoing in the hollow room. Not only is he being afflicted by unfamiliar apparitions, but one of them even addresses him by name! Deeply disturbed, he bolts to his feet, stumbling backwards over his pallet.
Shall I be followed and tormented in my own castle by a crew of shadows? he wonders. He fights to regain his balance, and then the vision abruptly ends. He beholds only the empty chamber before him and the bright belly of the moon through the open window. Sweating with relief, he steadied himself against the wall for a moment before dropping to the cold stone floor. This visitation has frightened him and his rapidly beating heart feels painfully large in his chest.