Swan Song

So many lives and so many wives…

I stare across at her sleeping form and try to figure out where she features in the long line of spouses that have shared the intimacy of my bed. She sleeps peacefully – mouth slightly parted, long ebony lashes resting softly against her face.

I think it must be nice to sleep like that, to escape the rigors of conscious thought. It’s a gift that I envy, one I can never possess. In my envy at least I am humanlike. On many occasions I’ve tried to imagine what it must be like to nestle in the open arms of slumber, to be both renewed and relaxed from within. I have read many books on the subject and tried different drugs. But the art of sleeping, the way other humanoids do, evades me. Truth be told, perhaps I’m too busy living for sleep to be part of who I am.

I breathe deeply in faux humanity but its falseness lodges inside me like a broken winged bird. I am no more human than the four hundred billion stars that make up the Milky Way. As if to testify to that, my internal body clock tells me it’s seven twenty nine. I lie still, limp as a rag – ready to simulate my sudden awakening.

7:29:58…

7:29:59…

7:30…

Beep! Beep! Beep!

‘Alarm clock off computer,’ I groan, imitating a still sleepy state.

Yet another charade. My lies are eroding me. Day by day a little more of me crumbles away. I hate lying to her. She deserves better.

‘Hey baby,’ she murmurs, rolling over. She’s naked beneath that white sheet and thoughts of sniffing and licking her warm cunt before filling her cross my mind.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she smiles.

‘You do? How’s that?’

She merely points to my stiffening cock, then wraps her hand around it, slowly pumping, teasing my tip and sensitive frenulum. We lock eyes and within, a smouldering arises from the embers of morning. She always was a lusty woman.

‘I want some breakfast,’ I say, pushing her hand away. Playfully she pouts, then lies back for me, letting me part her legs.

‘Good girl,’ I tell her before sliding my wet tongue slowly the entire length of her slit.

Mhmm…divine.

I repeat the process a few times. Gently I kiss her inner thighs, knowing she will love the sensation but will be missing my worshipful tongue on her pussy. She’s grabbing at the sheets now. Smiling, I return to her puffy lips, nibbling lightly, nosing her and grazing her skin with my stubble.

‘You smell so fucking good Kirsty.’

Grabbing her ass, I pull her closer and circle her little clit with my tongue. She needs filled, so I slide a finger inside while I lick. She’s gooey and warm in there. So needy for my cum. A gradual build up of speed is required to stoke her fire. My tongue works it’s magic in unison with caressing fingers. So much wetness is slipping from her, coating my fingers. I need to get my dick in there – bury it deep, slam that spot that makes her grip me like crazy. But she has to cum first. She’s close.

‘Fuck Enza!’ she cries. Her back arches and suddenly she’s creaming all over my fingers, pulsating and thrusting madly. Slowly she comes down from the high and I massage her lightly before pulling my fingers out and licking them.

She moans as I mount her and slide into her still slightly throbbing hole. A breast in one hand and a hip gripped tightly in the other, I fuck her for all I’m worth. Before long she cums again. I grit my teeth and try to hold on but her surging muscles stroking me wetly prove too much. Cum jets from my euphoric dick, splashing every part of her vagina. The thought of it drives me insane, sending still more gushing into her void. I push deep so that my sac is resting on her, hoping she can feel the spasms. There I hold it, gripping her to me, proud to have pleasured my woman.

After a moment I attempt to roll off but she grabs my buttocks in an effort to make me stay.

‘Nu-uh. We’re not done yet.’

‘Kirsty you know I don’t have time to. I’ve an audience with Rousakel Chyne at eleven and there are preparations to be made.’

‘Yes, but I also know he’s been waiting eight years to see your show. Another hour won’t kill him. Send a message and say we’ve been delayed.’

I raise an eyebrow as she attempts to shove her breast in my face.

‘If it was up to you I doubt we’d ever get out of bed at all,’ I say, unable to resist nuzzling her bosom. Against my better judgement we make love for another hour.

Two hours later and badly behind schedule, I instruct the Captain of my ship, the Incarnare to take us to the planet Damoclatees at full speed. He is not impressed at the pressure this will put on the ship’s newly calibrated engines but he complies anyway, no doubt putting two and two together upon noticing my ruffled hair and decidedly ruddy complexion. Probably he expects this sort of thing from newly weds like us. I would.

Funny thing is, I promised myself I would never marry again after Mary. You see my last wife Mary was special – the kind of person that completes you in ways you didn’t even know you needed. The kind that seems to know your every thought and wish before you even think it. I was an open book to her once, or so it seemed. Well, I suppose she understood the parts I let her see. My uniqueness was never disclosed. She thought me human and while I was with her, I rarely felt myself to be anything but. I felt guilty on those rare occasions for not being truthful but I consoled myself with the knowledge that no one ever really knows a person fully – everyone has secrets and things they don’t share. Either way, two thousand six hundred years after she died, I met Kirsty and discovered I could still feel love or a close approximation thereof at the very least.

I stride along the corridors of the Incarnare dressed in head to toe black, my waistcoat flapping open with every movement. My outfit is ridiculously cliche. I know that. But I care not. Throughout the galaxy, magicians have dressed like this for eons. So who am I to trample tradition? If people want to assume I’m just another space carnival act, then let them. My goal is to share my gift. Always has been. That involves pretending to be the pretenders just a little bit.

I unlock the granite door to my focus room with a brief retinal scan.

‘Access granted,’ drones the computer and the door whooshes open.

Once inside, that familiar boredom seeps into my body. All around are unusual artifacts – a huge carving of Vesparite stone from Yu’Geatch, a platform made from obsidian, inside a tank, a chunk of shape shifting ice from the ice moon of Zoth swirls and shifts then glows when it registers my presence. All of these things are meant to give the impression my powers are magical. Instead they are responsible for my ennui as is being in the room itself. I’m trapped here just as I am in the role I’ve assumed – pretending.

With no routines to practice, I feel like a school kid wanting to bunk school. I’d rather spend the rest of the trip with Kirsty than sit here doing meditation on a rubber mat.

So I vacate the focus room and float down the corridor, utterly wrapped up in the thought of surprising my beautiful wife. Who knows, maybe we will pick up where we left off again? She certainly still seemed to have been ready for more.

I open the door and discover that yes, she very definitely IS ready for more.

‘Gods, oh Jaspa! Yes! Yes! Harder!’

She’s writhing naked in our bed, in the clutches of an equally naked burly officer. The draft of the door must have alerted them to my presence and both turn in shock. But before they glimpse me, I cloak myself and walk away stealthily.

‘Enza? Enza?’ she cries. ‘Is that you?’

I grit my teeth, almost grinding them to dust. The moment I saw her lying there, legs spread like a Bagytan whore, I made my mind up. I will disappear from public life as planned after my last performance, only in my new plan, she will not be coming. She is my wife in name now only.

‘Are you there my love?’ she calls out into the corridor.

Behind her I can see the officer scrambling to make his exit. I press myself against the wall, still cloaked and brace myself to tell her of my decision.

‘You’re my wife no longer Kirsty. You betrayed me for no good reason when I’ve only ever done my best for you. For us.’

‘But Enza,’ she sobs.

‘No buts Kirsty. I never want to see you again.’

I have no more words. My shock and disappointment is too great. A primality takes over and I head to the supply deck where I kick around some crates and punch a few walls. Not very fitting for a being of my age but it is satisfying nonetheless. When my anger is lessened, I make my way to the bridge and discover that we are only three quarters of an hour away from Damoclatees where a man called Rousakel Chyne awaits me. He is not only a member of the Damoclateen council but is also incredibly rich and a HUGE fan of magic. Therefore I need to pull myself together.

I use the age old calming techniques taught to me by a holy man I once met called Buddha. I find it helps. The questions soon return though.

How could she have done that? Did I not satisfy her? How could I have been so blinded by her? How could I have not seen this part of her make-up?

As usual the bridge is busy which distracts me well enough. Beams of elongated starlight stretch past us on the front viewer, seemingly without end. From where I’m seated I can observe the Captain in full flow and get to watch him at his work.

He orders the ship’s navigator to drop us out of warp and then turns.

‘We’re within communication range now Sir.’

I open up a channel.

‘Greetings. This is Enza Gray. Please inform Senator Rousakel Chyne that I’m almost within transport range.’

The spindly purple being before me on the viewscreen shiftly awkwardly from leg to leg, brushing his fangs with a strange set of shaggy antennae.

‘I am afraid Senator Chyne cannot see you.’

‘What? But we have come all this way. May I ask why?’

The purple being makes a snorting sound.

‘Senator Rousakel Chyne died two days ago. His funeral ceremony will be held tomorrow.’

He or she makes a move to shut down the connection but I hold out my hand to halt them. I need to know more.

‘Can anyone attend this funeral?

‘Certainly not. You must have an invitation.’

‘Then you must get me one. Please remember to say it is for Enza Gray.’

‘I will do my best,’ says the creature bowing slightly.

I think it unlikely that he will succeed in his mission but I am surprised to find two hours later that he has managed to arrange it.

I sit in my focus room studying the guest list, determined to avoid Kirsty. I’m interested to see who I know on the list. Apparently, twelve thousand will be in attendance from every corner of the quadrant. Partway down there’s a name I hadn’t expected; Myra Qhan. I wince. There’s no homeworld listed. Mine is the only other name to be listed in such a manner. The only additional detail beside her name is her title ‘Enchantress Extraordinaire’. We are both enigmas it would seem.

For years now, she has been my only rival, the only one who has ever come close to surpassing the spectacular feats I’ve performed on countless planets. I try to tell myself it doesn’t bother me. But clearly it does, because I don’t want her on that damn list! For the first time ever, Myra and I will share the same ‘breathing’ space. I am not a happy humanoid. This is all I need, another woman I don’t want to see.

Well, I muse to myself. Perhaps the answer to that is for me to find a woman or two I do feel like seeing…

After I reach planetside and settle into my luxurious accommodations, I immediately go off in search of the nearest refreshment parlour. It’s called ‘Storm’. I can see why. Up on two seperate podiums two groups of couples dance and gyrate in nothing but waterproof body paint. I say this because it is alternately raining from somewhere in the ceiling and blowing a draft over them in imitation of a storm, yet none of it seems to be affecting their paint. Taking a seat near the bar, I watch. Now and then a bolt of special effect lightning spears one of the dancing couples and they fall to the ground theatrically as though dead. Moments later, they stir and begin crawling over each other where they lie, moving and humping in time to the music.

‘Aren’t you going to order something?’ a sultry voice says from my elbow.

I turn to find a stunningly beautiful Hyrexian woman standing there.

‘I am indeed. I was just wondering what to have. What do you recommend?’

She smiles and then looks pointedly at the empty seat next to mine.

‘Want to sit for a while and advise me?’

‘Sure.’

She makes herself comfortable and drags the menu that’s hovering above the table to her, tapping a mercury coloured talon on its outer edge.

‘I think you’d like ‘A Sultry Heatwave,’ she says. She glides the menu over to me so I can see what’s in it and flicks her braided white hair over her bronzed shoulder.

I don’t need to look. I don’t care what I have to drink. I just want her to help me forget.

‘Sounds perfect. Shall I make it two?’

‘Why not?’

Our drinks arrive while we are making flirtatious small talk. I discover that she is a procurer of exotic goods for the wealthy and that she too is here for the funeral. Apparently she often sourced items for the Senator and is quite upset to find he has passed.

‘Yes, I shall miss him,’ she says. ‘He always had the most excellent taste and was very generous in his ways I found.’

‘I don’t blame him,’ I murmur, watching her plump lips close in on the edge of her glass. She gazes up at me, eyes half lidded, a slightly mischievous quirk playing at one corner of her lips.

‘How is your drink? She purrs.

She leans in and strokes the top of my arm tenderly.

‘It’s delicious, just like yourself.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. I’m wondering if you are as sweet.’

We lean much closer till our faces are almost touching. I take hold of the back of her braid covered head and draw her lips to mine. She kisses back, hungrily, pressing, gasping as her tongue quests for mine. We back off at the same time and eye each other over our drinks. Assessing.

My dick protests in my pants as I take in her full breasts and curvaceous hips. She is examining me too. But neither of us care. We know what this is.

‘Want to come back to my place?’ she suggests, draining her glass.

‘I’d love to.’

Glasses are hastily drained and we both make our exit.

As we hurry down the street, passing stalls and vendors, I’m not quite so confident now that we have left. She had kissed me quite ferociously in the bar. Almost predatorial in manner. Perhaps it might be wise to dial the passion back a notch and build things up slowly. There’s no rush.

But no. Once the door closes behind us, she’s on me. She has me up against it, one leg raised so she can grind her heated pussy against my thigh. Her mercury nails are piercing my nape while her mouth is biting and nipping at my throat.

I grab her roving hands. There’s blood on her nails.

‘Let’s take this to the bed huh?’

‘But I want you to fuck me against the door, hard, like a stallion. Make it rattle, so everyone out there knows what we’re doing.’

If my back wasn’t already against the door, I’d have taken a step back. She seems too aggressive for me and is already tearing at both our clothes. In fact most of hers are gone. Flung who knows where.

Noting my waning enthusiasm she strides over to a drawer and to my dismay she pulls out a holographic dick and starts programming it to attach to her form.

‘Maybe you’d prefer I fuck you then? She says, proudly displaying her quite frankly worryingly large artificial cock.

I’m still against the door and all I can think about right now is getting away. Instead, I smile and walk towards her, looking with fake lust at her cock.

‘Wow…look at you.’

She smiles.

‘You like?’

‘I really do. But since this is my first time, I’d prefer the bed,’ I tell her. ‘And I’m going to need to use your bathroom first too.’

She nods. And as I’d hoped, she goes and lies on the bed to wait, leaving me to take care of business. Once in the bathroom, I cloak. A few moments pass and then I slip out of the bathroom, then quietly through the outer door. Unfortunately, the outer door is not quiet. She hears it and immediately knows what has happened. I can hear her shouting behind me. Who cares though? I’m away. Away from her savagery and her kinky toys. If I see her tomorrow, I’ll just add her to the growing list of women I ignore.

The day of the funeral arrives bringing with it a sense of apprehension. However it is dignified orderly as opposed to the usual chaotic outpourings of grief seen in many cultures. The event is being held in an open air arena beneath the lilac hues of the twin Damoclateen suns. Row upon row of people sit waiting solemnly for the service to begin. They do not chat. A few murmur a small greeting or two. It makes me wonder if any of them know each other at all, let alone the Senator.

I sit down and look across at the Senator’s family who are gathered at the foot of the circular stage. They too are gazing up at the bullet shaped casket, looking calmer than the Xantosian lakes. Perhaps this is just their personal way of dealing with grief I tell myself.

Suddenly the family’s attention turns elsewhere. I crane my neck to see what they’re looking at.

Multiple chimes ring out in pleasant harmony as a trio of monks file out bedecked in simple flowing robes. They bow at the waist as a cool refreshing breeze wafts in from the nearby ocean. The one on the left with pure white hair begins to speak.

‘Welcome one and all. You have been invited here today to witness the funeral of Senator Rousakel Chyne who died by his own hand three days ago.’

What! Died by his own hand? As in suicide?

I had not even realised. How awful for his family. That being the case they are holding up even better than I thought. I wonder how he died? And it’s only been three days. Three days…

An idea starts to form. I’ve done it before, a very long time ago. I think with a huge effort, I might be able to perform a resurrection again. But should I, since the man has made his choice to die and his family don’t seem that visibly grief stricken?

Yes. I should.

I fully intend to reanimate the Senator’s body seconds before they vaporise his casket. This will be my final act as Enza Gray, Enchanter Extraordinaire, putting to an end the rivalry between myself and Enchantress Myra once and for all. But more importantly, on a much more personal level, it will help me draw a line under this old life. I’ll be free to start anew elsewhere – away from the treachery of my twenty third wife Kirsty.

As the albino monk speaks I scan the crowd for any sign of Myra.

I see her.

She is sitting to the right of me wearing her ridiculous trademark veil and gloves. They’re always the same. Completely opaque and the colour of arterial blood. I despise them. Especially as today they cause me to wonder at the manner of the Senator’s death.

What is she thinking I wonder? I lower my gaze, annoyed that I had momentarily forgotten that mind reading is one of her unique gifts – one that I lack.

I must avoid thinking of my envy lest she sense it. Yes, I envy the man in the casket, whose atoms will eventually assemble themselves into something else. What wouldn’t I give to be mortal, to eventually be able to purge this massive cache of thoughts and memories in my head – to start over as something else. Maybe a beetle. Or a worm. Lowly yes but at least it would be a totally fresh start. No baggage. No lies. No memories.

The monk has stopped talking and a huge screen now hovers above us all. Myra turns her veiled head towards me. I ignore her gaze and sit back to watch, wondering what we are going to see.