The Dying Hour

The room is illuminated only by candles. Some of them are scented and they suffuse the air in the room with a pleasant, sweet odour. The four-poster bed has been positioned in the center of the room. There is no carpet on the floor and even in the semi-light of the room the circumference of the chalk-marked circle bordered the room with runic symbols can be seen clearly.

The white drapes of the bed have been tied back allowing me to see her curled up on the white sheets. She is wearing a red silken outfit the hem of which reaches just below her hips. Her back is to me, and her luscious, thick auburn hair is spread out on the pillow.

As I reach the edge of the bed, I see a small bedside table. Resting on it is a familiar red leather-bound photo album. It is closed but I know it’s contents, the photographic memories held within. There is also a bowl of water and a packet of cotton wipes and tissues — accessories for our annual ritual.

The hourglass is there too, standing like a malignant omen.

Removing my shoes, I climb onto the bed and go to her. She does not stir, and I know she is asleep. I lean over and look at her face, her serene expression. Her sublime beauty is painful for me to behold – the curve of her neck, the soft contours of her features, the fullness of her lips. I stare, mesmerised, not wishing to disturb her or break the spell I am in. I could watch her lying like this for all eternity, but I know I must wake her. Time is short.

I place one hand on her shoulder. ‘Sarah,’ I call softly. I shake her shoulder gently and call her name again.

She stirs, her eyes bleary. She wipes them swiftly casts off the drowsiness of waking. Her eyes focus on me. ‘David? You’re here,’ she says, looking up at me.

‘I’m here,’ I say, smiling.

Her eyes narrow. ‘How long?’

‘Just now, a couple of minutes, I suppose.’

‘Were you watching me sleep?’ her tone is accusatory.

‘Uh, not much, just a little.’

‘You bloody idiot. I told you not to do that, not after last year. You should have woken me immediately.’

‘Sorry,’ I say lamely.

She sits up and reaches for the hourglass.

‘Do you have to do that?’

‘Yes,’ she says abruptly, and turns it on its head. The first grains of sand trickle out of it.

‘You’re torturing yourself with that bloody thing,’ I tell her.

‘I’m a masochist, don’t you know me by now?’ she says, reaching for the bowl of water and the cotton wipes.

I decide it is best not to argue.

‘Come closer to the candlelight, so I can see you better,’ she says.

I shift closer to the bedside table that holds several large candles. She wets a cotton wipe in the bowl and applies it to my cheek to starting to wipe away the face paint.

‘Ow, that’s cold,’ I protest.

‘Well, the water was warm when I put it in the bowl. You should have got here earlier. Stop complaining. Every year you moan when I take off this stuff.’ She tosses a used cotton wide on the floor and quickly applies another, working quickly to clear my face the of the greenish Halloween face paint that makes my face looked decayed and zombie-like.

‘Why don’t you just leave it on?’ I ask. ‘It’ll save some time. A couple of minutes at least.’

‘Great idea, very romantic — I’ve got this nice silk outfit on, got the four-poster bed set up, with new drapes, not that you probably bloody noticed, spent god knows how long lighting all these candles — all that’s missing for my romantic evening is a fiancé who looks like he’s an extra that’s got lost from the set of The Walking Dead!’ As she talks, she continues to clean my face, finishing with the area around my eyes.

‘Well, my Halloween costume is a meant to be a zombie off The Walking Dead.’

‘There, that’s pretty much all that crap off your face. Now get out of those horrible rags,’ she orders.

By horrible rags, she means my rather convincing zombie outfit which consists of a torn, stained, and muddy looking suit. I start taking it off.

‘Quicker,’ she says, glancing at the hourglass. ‘Christ, you could have taken that off when you got here, instead of ogling me when I was asleep.’

‘Okay, okay,’ I said, fumbling more quickly to remove my outfit. ‘I did take off my shoes, you know?’

‘I should bloody well think so, too. Who gets onto a four-poster bed wearing their shoes?’

I remove the costume and toss it on the floor.

To Sarah’s ire, it lands dangerously close to one of the candles placed around the floor. Sarah cuffs me on the shoulder. ‘Watch it. When you get onto bed with your fiancé your meant to kindle erotic fires, not real ones.’

‘Sorry,’ I say as I remove the rest of my clothes. I put them on the floor with more care and lie beside her on the bed. She’s on her side, I can smell the perfume she’s wearing. It’s Miss Dior, my favourite. She wears it every Halloween.

She looks beautiful and I know she must have spent hours getting herself ready. Her hair, I can tell, is newly permed. Her facial makeup is lightly applied, just enough to enhance her cheekbones, the mascara and eye shadow complimenting and enhancing her soft hazel eyes. Her fingernails are perfect too. They look freshly manicured, and her nail varnish matches the red of her silk outfit, the fabric of which shimmers in the candlelight, as though she were part of a beautiful mirage. The swell of her breasts lifts and falls with her breathing, and her low-cut neckline of her short dress reveals an alluring deep cleavage. A thin delicate gold chain, the one I bought her for twenty-first birthday, hangs around her neck, and I see she is also wearing the teardrop diamond earrings I bought her as a Valentine’s Day gift, the second year we’d been dating.

I place a tentative hand on her hips, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath. We gaze into each other’s eyes savouring the intimacy of the moment, the connection than only lovers can share — an iridescent touching of souls, of two hearts entwined in the kaleidoscope of romance’s eternal glow. My cock is rock hard.

‘Would you like me to take off your panties?’ I say softly, in my best seductive voice.

‘You might find that a bit of a challenge, darling.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re wearing that chastity belt again.’

She scowls at my attempt at wit. ‘No. In fact, I’m not wearing anything.’

‘Oh good,’ I say, and placing a hand under her knee I lift her leg and start to angle my cock towards the dark triangle of heavenly delights between her legs.

‘What are you doing?’ the cold tone of her voice stops me dead.

‘What do you think I’m doing?’ I counter. I’m still holding one of her legs up in the air.

‘Well, you’re certainly not extending the limits of romance. Are you trying for a world record or something? The world’s fastest lover, perhaps?’

‘Uh, no, but I just thought what with the time factor and all,’ I nod toward the hourglass.

‘Listen, Romeo, it’s like the Sahara Desert down there right now. You want to shove your dick between two sheets of sandpaper, be my guest. Alternatively, you can google something called foreplay on my phone.’

‘Harsh,’ I say, still wincing at her sandpaper analogy. I decide it is prudent to lower her leg. ‘I’m sorry.’

To my surprise she shakes her head. ‘No, it’s me who should be saying sorry.’ Tears are forming in her eyes. ‘I’ve been a crabby bitch since you got here. I’m sorry.’ She turns her face away so I can’t see her tears.

‘Hey,’ I say gently, putting a hand on her shoulder. ‘Don’t say that. Don’t apologise.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she says, cuffing away a tear.

‘You’re sorry? Are you apologising for apologising? Cause if you are, that’s not on. I expect an apology for that.’

She laughs through the tears and sniffles. I pass her a tissue from the packet on the table and she blows her nose and wipes away her tears. She looks at me. ‘I’ve ruined my make-up, haven’t I? Has my mascara run?’

I scrutinise her face with exaggerated care. ‘Hmm, let’s see. Put it like this, with that mascara, if there’s an Alice Cooper lookalike competition, you’ll win hands down.’

She punched me lightly on the shoulder. ‘Bastard,’ she laughed.

‘Bitch.’ My hand goes to the back of her head as I lean in, and we kiss.

The kiss is hard, with a fierce urgency. I feel her hand on the back my head holding me in place. Gradually the kiss softens, becomes more tender, desire melting into affection. Her soft hands cup my face. My hand finds her breast. My touch is gentle, caressing. Through the soft silk material, I feel her nipple harden.

Sarah’s eyes are closed as she kisses me, as though she wants no distraction from the sensation. One of her hands slips from my face and I feel her perfect manicured fingers close around the shaft of my erection. She gives my cock a gentle squeeze before using her fingers to caress my balls, then her fingertips trace their way up my shaft to find the sensitive swollen head. She touches the top, the meatus, with her thumb, finding the first drops of pre-come which she uses to rub gently over the glans coating it in a slimy lubricant. The sensation is heavenly.

Sarah breaks the kiss for a moment to tell me to squeeze her nipple. I obey and she gives a sharp gasp as we resume kissing. I use my finger and thumb to tweak and roll her nipple beneath the silk fabric and as the pleasure I give her intensifies, so too does the motions of her attentive hand. She grips the shaft of my cock, wanking me slowly to make me harder still.

She pulls away, her eyes hazy with desire, her pupils dilated. She takes the hem of her dress in her hands, and stretching her arms up, pulls the garment off in one fluid motion, discarding it on the floor.

I have always marveled at the ability of women to remove their clothes with such ease. The attempts of we men to undress a woman frequently result in the need for an illustrated set of instructions, pliers, a magnifying glass, and the determination and fortitude of an arctic explorer.

Sarah pushes me over onto my back and climbs on top of me. Reaching down she grabs my cock again in one hand, like a racing driver grabbing the gearstick, readying to accelerate.

For a moment I think she will guide it into herself, but instead she moves down my body, her soft breasts rubbing against my chest and her mane of fragrant hair caressing my skin while she peppers my torso with kisses. She moves down and reaching my crotch, nuzzles my cock against her face, before planting soft kisses from the tip then down the shaft to my balls which she lathers with her tongue. I close my eyes savouring the unbelievable pleasure. She runs her tongue languidly up the shaft then then holding the base of my cock in her hand she works her tongue over my bulbous glans as though she is licking an ice cream on a hot summer’s afternoon.

I place one hand on her head, my fingers running through the voluminous mass of velvet brown hair. Then I feel her take me deeper, her head sinks all the way down and my cock is buried in the soft constrictive passage of her throat. The sensation is out of this world. She slowly withdraws my cock from her throat and mouth and looks at me, a thick thread of saliva and come hanging from her lower lip.

‘Okay?’ she asks.

‘More than okay,’ I breath. The I inhale deeply as she deep throats me again. She works her head expertly, sheathing and unsheathing my cock with her throat and using her fingers to massage and caress my balls.

My breathing is deep and rapid now, my scrotum tight. I can feel the build-up in the base of my cock, I’m going to come any second. Sarah senses this and uses her mouth rather than her throat to receive my load.

I half sit up as my cock spasms, ejaculating my creamy come into Sarah’s willing mouth. She gulps down my load as it discharges and when I’ve finished coming, she uses her tongue to lap all around the glans, cleaning it thoroughly. She slithers up my body to lie beside me and kisses me on the cheek. ‘Was that good?’ she asks softly.

‘That was out of this world. You can deep throat.’

‘You noticed then?’ she says lightly, and I can tell she is pleased with herself.

‘Since when?’

‘I’ve been practicing, haven’t I?’

‘Oh, with whom?’

‘His name’s Mr Dildo, but I’ve cheated on you with Mr Cucumber and once with Mr Carrot, too.’ As she talks, she trails her fingers through the hair on my chest.

‘It’s all coming out now, isn’t it? You’re quite the Jezebel, aren’t you? I’ve always thought womenkind’s abuse of inanimate objects and innocent vegetables, one of the great injustices of history.’

‘Well, we get so much shit from you men, we have to take it out on something,’ she says, her hand now meandering back to my semi-limp cock.

I was about to make a witty riposte, but I discover I’m distracted by something — can’t think what – but it occurs to me a chap should think very carefully about he says to his lady while she holds in her hand a certain piece of his anatomy.

Sarah’s fingers stroke and caress my balls, before moving to run the length of my shaft, massaging my member back to life. She has a talent for this sort of reanimation. She kisses me gently on the lips to further the revival of my ardour and I can feel my cock thicken in her hand.

Satisfied I am hard enough for her, she climbs on top, bringing her legs up to adopt a straddling position, so her knees are either side of my hips. She takes my stiffened member in her hand and guides the head of my cock between her legs as she lowers herself. The wet soft lips of her pussy smother my glans, and sure of her angle, she drops down, so my cock impales her in a sudden deep jab. We both cry out from the sudden pleasure of the motion.

Sarah begins to ride me slowly, enjoying the sensation of my cock buried deep inside her. She moves her hips back and forth, and in a very slight circular motion, as she leans forward, her hands on my chest. Pausing from her rhythmic motion she lifts herself from me so only the tip of my cock rests in the hungry lips of her pussy.

She looks me in the eyes, teasing me and drawing out the moment. I can feel my cock twitch with the need to be buried inside her. I raise my hips trying to enter, but she lifts herself too, so my cock is no further inside. Her eyes gently mock me. I am in control they are saying to me, I decide when you can be inside me, I am your mistress, I am your goddess. I give and withhold pleasure at my will.

I lower my hips giving her the victory, and she rewards my submission by plunging down hard so my shaft drives deep inside.

We both cry out from the ecstatic sensation, then Sarah resumes her rhythmic riding motion, slow and controlled at first, then, as the need for orgasm and release builds in both our loins, she increases the tempo driving herself down as she grinds back and forth. I see a slight sheen of sweat on her skin. She tosses her mane of thick back as she fucks me harder, her breathing laboured, emitting guttural grunts with each downward thrust.

I buck my hips up to meet each thrust, so I am as deep in her as possible. Her vaginal muscles are clamped tight around my cock making her feel tight to be inside. I reach up grabbing her breasts squeezing and kneading them roughly. Sarah’s face is drawn with concentration, and her eyes, although fixed on mine, are unfocussed and glazed. Her grunts are louder as her tempo reaches it maximum speed. We are both close now to release and I can feel the pressure in my scrotum is building rapidly. I cannot withhold from coming, but Sarah beats me to the finish line by a split second.

We both cry out at the intensity of our mutual orgasm. Sarah’s back is arched, her head thrown back. Her body trembles as the electric current of pleasure courses through her. My head is swimming. I feel giddy. Then, our bodies spent, we are released from the grip of orgasm.

Sarah slumps and collapses forward on top of me, like a marionette with its strings cut. We lay for long seconds recovering our breathing and giving our racing heartbeats a chance to return to a less heart-attack inducing rate.

‘God, that was good. I so needed that,’ Sarah says between breaths.

‘Hmm,’ I say, ‘and not a thought for all my suffering, just so you can save on wearing out your dildo.’

‘Yeah,’ she breathes. ‘My darling dildo, how could I ever cheat on it with the likes of you? The guilt is killing me already.’

She lies on top of me as we bask in the afterglow of good sex. I am still inside her but flaccid. It is a pleasurable sensation and I know Sarah likes it too. I stroke her hair as I listen to her regular breathing and feel the warmth of her body. Minutes melt away.

‘The time!’ she cries, suddenly. There is apprehension in her voice.

She tries to raise her head and turn her face to see the hourglass, but I use my hand to hold her head against my chest. ‘Don’t look at it, Sarah. Don’t look.’

She doesn’t fight me, and I feel the pressure of her head against my hand diminish as she relaxes, though there is a tension in her body that was not there before. She knows what my words mean, and why I do not want her look at the hourglass. She knows our time together is nearly over. I hold her in my arms, giving her a comforting squeeze.

We have entered the last minutes of the dying hour. These are the hardest minutes. There is no space for humour or banter, as an overwhelming sadness fills her and there is nothing I can say or do to ease her pain and misery.

‘This is the last time,’ she whispers.

‘I know,’ I say as I stroke her hair, and I can tell she knows I do not believe her.

‘I mean it, David. This time, I really mean it,’ she says the words earnestly. She always says the words earnestly. I wonder if deep down she believes them herself even as she says them.

‘You’ll find someone else,’ I say.

‘I’ll find someone else,’ she echoes miserably. ‘Someone like you.’

I can feel her tears on my chest.

We lie together on the bed but in our thoughts, we are both somewhere else — in another place and time.

It is the night I died.

I am lying on the pavement, on my back. Traffic passes by on the road, the world is oblivious to my imminent death. I am wearing my Walking Dead Halloween costume. It is drizzling with rain, though I hardly notice. Sarah is leaning over me. She is holding one of my hands in hers. She is crying.

I try to speak, and taste blood in my throat. The words do not come. I want to tell Sarah it is okay, and not to be afraid. But I am afraid, and it is not okay. Standing behind her a throng of people in Halloween costumes watch helplessly. Some are on their phones.

‘Where the fuck’s the ambulance?’ someone is saying. The words sound distant.

Sarah’s face comes in and out of focus. She is very close.

‘Don’t go,’ she says, over and over. A mantra of desperation.

But I am going. I can feel it as sure as the blood that seeps from my knife wounds.

That’s the last time I try and break up a fight.

I close my eyes, I just want to go to sleep now, but Sarah is shaking me, trying to get my attention.

My eyes flutter open and it is a struggle to focus my vision. She’s holding up a small piece of paper. There’s some sort of symbol on it – a runic symbol. Sarah is very much into the occult, always reading books and watching documentaries on it. She’s a proper expert.

I see her bite the palm of her hand hard, so it bleeds. Then, she takes my hand and bites my palm too. I barely feel it, though I should, for she’s drawn blood. She puts the paper with the strange runic symbol between our bleeding hands, pressing them firmly together.

She closes her eyes and is saying something – a rush of words, an incantation of sorts, the words sound strange – Latin or Nordic, perhaps. They make no sense to me. But when the stream of words stops, she looks at me with a harsh intensity. She’s talking but I cannot hear the words. It is difficult to concentrate on anything now. Behind her I can see the flashing blue lights of an ambulance. My eyelids feel heavy. I so want to sleep.