I. The Created.
Time: the secret present, or future…
Her hair moved around her as she stood at the base of the building and gazed up its impossible length, the type that made her feel a little dizzy, and greedy.
The thought passed.
Her shoulders square, she considered the number (4217) as she moved though the glass doors, off the urban street and through the lobby.
3 years since the repair, to the day.
The concierge didn’t see her as she smiled and nodded. She crossed the length of the marble tiled floor. Her scent put the room at ease, and one woman sighed, and had to rub the line of moisture from her reading screen.
Elevator ascent, ticking off the numbers as she rose through the air. She stood still over her heels, one hand dipping into her purse and applying a coat of Russian Red to her naked lips, flawlessly noting the cupid’s bow shape of her mouth. She stood still over her heels and felt her pulse quicken, her breath coming faster.
3 years since she had walked out of here for the first time. New. Precious un-human rebirth.
The doors opened in front of her and she stepped into the hallway. For a moment all of the lights had rainbow auras around them, something that now happened from time to time, especially when she was having an emotional response to her environment. She paused and blinked twice to clear her vision. She was used to it by now; the enhancement of her visual field was a side effect of her modified blood stream. The play of geometric patterns and light trails was not unlike the human experience of psychedelic tripping. It was something one could get used to. One of the many things she had normalized in her now extra-human status. There were things far stranger.
She found the door to his office and removed a glove to knock twice. The door, recognizing her, opened and admitted her into an inner foyer. Inside, she removed the other glove, and her shoes. She had worn the black 5 inch heels and placed them particularly, where she knew he would enjoy seeing them by the door. On the table, underneath the potted orchid, was the money order made out to her. She let it be for the moment.
She walked on bare tip toes through the green house curtain, entering The Garden. The humidity enrobed her, and she was damp immediately. He was there. He looked up casually at her entrance, though she hadn’t made a sound. Her breath caught in her throat, stopping her, and her heart swelled as she gazed at him. Here was her beloved of sorts, and certainly a savior, though not singular. She felt saved by each of her clients. He had just been the first.
He affected an air of indifference, as though he hadn’t been waiting for her, as though he hadn’t been watching from the myriad of surveillance screens as she had come to him. He wore light linen trousers to be comfortable in his sub-tropical laboratory. He was shirtless and the lines of his body emerged from the backdrop of his work as though he had grown there along side his creations, which were an astounding synthesis of technology and biology. Though he was silver at his temples, his body reflected the passions of chemistry and precision honed through years of practice. His skin was both dusky and luminous. At 42 he maintained a remarkable, manicured youthfulness, proof that in this age money was indeed time. He traded in time, synthesized time, like that he had given her. She felt the moment expand and contract, like her heart beat animated by his gift of a second, modified life. Now he closed the final distance between them as she stood rooted to the spot, suspended on the balls of her feet, dripping.
His arms came around her, reaching behind for the zipper which effortlessly gave way at his touch. He spread the shoulders of the dress, and the garment dropped to the floor by her bare toes. Her eyes met his, deep blue and forever. She hadn’t worn anything beneath the black dress and her eyes sparkled as she gave a coy smile. He sighed audibly and lowered his face to her neck, sweeping her long hair back from her bare shoulder.
“You can relax,” he breathed against her skin. “Kvietka. Jojo. Fiore…..Fleur….”
She closed her eyes and eased the soles of her feet to the floor, as his lips moved against her skin, mouthing his pet names for her. “Flower,” he said in a dozen languages or more, “my pretty flower, my exquisite flower, my…” The word “flower” covered every inch of her skin, as he made a delicate examination of her entire body.
He was a doctor, a scientist, in a time when social policy and law were maintained by those who controlled technology. He fancied himself a designer. With a prestigious position consulting for one of the tech-parties of the city, he could well afford to conceal his secret garden. The privileges of his advanced training granted him a certain invisibility. He had access to the resources of the time, and this space had become a playground for his research, and awful genius. Nobody asked and nobody told. She had learned herself to keep his silence, and he certainly kept hers and for all that she loved him, she was frightened by him. Yes, she could still feel fear even now. Though the thought passed.
She stood, letting the waves born of his attention roll over her, each building to a crest and passing. She felt herself shift to meet his lips, the body answering to the touch of his wide, soft mouth. She felt her breath deepen and quicken. She drank in the heavy air and felt the subtle, yielding movements of her body responding to him. She kept her balance as he mouthed formulas of arousal across her skin, so much skin. He was patient and uncompromising. She came alive in his arms.
To be continued…
