The Love Of Lady Jane

Ave.
Just finished this tale this night and thought it would be to post quickly.
This tale is actually based on a real event in my's life, except of course the muscle growth part.
And, of course, the names have been changed to portect those involved.
Please enjoy.
Peace
The Pimp NeonBlack

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The Love of Lady Jane
A pseudo fiction
by NeonBlack

So, we begin already beyond halfway through my tale.
A tale of Flesh and Blood.
Mine & Others.
Shared & Split.
Much Pain & Pelt lies behind and more Pelt & Pain is to come.
But that was all unknown to me Now.
Which was Then.
When I did seek the quiet times of solitude away from the so-called excitements of my follied Youth. A chance to ‘lick’ my many, many wounds so to speak and gain a little recovery and respite before the Follies of the Future would take hold.
To make a point of it all, I was currently inhabiting my usual stool in the cloistered corner of ‘The Black Lion’, in the area outside of Great London.
Upon the surface of it all, it ‘The Black Lion’ seemed your typical -nigh cliched- English working class Pub. Dirty, smoky and overall a feeling of historical decrepitcy within it’s stained walls. But it was a good place to ‘lay low’ and avoid the troubles of a storm life.
I acquired the occupation of Bouncer and general ‘Jack-of-all-Trades’ for this establishment through various connections and favours forged in London’s seediest sections of Soho and the West End. The owner -Heh’aitch- used to be minor player in the West End games but had left that life long ago in order to set up ‘The Black Lion’ for himself. He was Catholic -hence the name- but we never minded. He was a good sort and a kind soul and more than eager to have I working for him -despite my more than apparent problems. It was my job then, much like the Now, to keep order and prevent any and all trouble from occurring within and without the confines of the Pub. A responsibility that I take very seriously indeed.
So, thus the reason for my placement within that cloister corner.
I had an hour or so before my shift was to begin. I would take this time to eat and to channel my essence into my coming work. To take note of the atmosphere of the night to come and bare myself thusly through it. Though I needed not to bother with such rituals in this place. The customers were all old working men, broken by industry and hardy by Life’s knocks. There were a few young ones scattered amongst them but they all behaved themselves because they were local and new the score with this place -even long before my unstately arrival. Any and all trouble to be had would come from the Londoners and county folk -all wayfarers between the routes from one to the other- and only their ignorance of ‘the way things were’ around here would bring them ill times and ill omens.
But the air of tonight seemed fair and my form had relaxed as was not customary for it, but there was still a tang in the Magic Hour and something stroked my soul uneasily as I rested my chopsticks upon my bowl and glanced down the L-shaped bar and across the smoky room.
There were few people here now, as was the custom of the Hour. They who worked the Day were yet to arrival and those who worked the Night had all but left, leaving behind the few forgotten dregs of these In-between Times. None of this would cause any issue -this or any other eve but still, something to stroke ill my Heart and made my flesh to crawl and to creep.
“Still eating that Charlie Chan stuff, Frankie?” Harrow called.
Like I, Harrow was another Soho refugee but I never asked his reasons for his Leaving. He was a good sort, skin as black as coal but a racial attitude whiter than a bleached sheet. It had always amazed I that someone who had suffered the taunts and bruises of skin to carry such a strange will towards other outsiders. West Indian descended but bred through the council estates of London -it is no wonder he developed such an attitude. It was a survival mechanism born of the need to fit in with scene and style not truly your own. Thus Harrow was made a form of racist but a hollow at that. As said before, he was a good soul and never truly held my descensions against I, thus a friendship of sorts was formed.
But still I cringed and glowered at such a reference to my distant kind. And even more so to the moniker that they had all adopted for me. The brand of ‘Frankie’.
“What of it?” I hissed, though my tight lips.
“Nuttin’,” he replied, with a half laugh. “Just heading down to get a curry, so I was just checkin that you don’t want anything else.”
“I be fine,” was my replied, dappling my taut mouth with my handkerchief. “What has been eaten shall suffice until the Dawn.”
“Ah, fair enough, mate,” he said, with a shrug. “Catch ya later. And don’t forget to give Heh’aitch hand with the barrels once ya done, OK?”
“Nah, it’ll be fine, Harrow!” Heh’aitch called, as he came from out the back room, breathing the sound of his lettered namesake hard as was his Catholic fashion. “Got the new girl helping me.”
I looked up at the mention of there being a ‘new girl’ working the bar of ‘The Black Lion’. Heh’aitch had muttered something to such effect yester-eve but had not made any commitment to her. Like Harrow and myself, she was yet another favour to old friends, but she was a county girl and not tainted by the stains of London Streets like the rest of us. I straightened my form in order to impose myself upon Heh’aitch’s attention but no soon as I had will my flesh to motion did a lady emerge from behind him, beer barrel in each hand.
“Aw, Christ, girl!” Heh’aitch muttered, as he crossed himself with sigh. “I told ya to bring the full barrels out.”
“But I did, Mr. Hardings,” the girl protested, as she deposited the barrels beneath the bar, placing them with a solid and filled resound.
I let out a sharped, single, breathed laugh at the mention of Heh’aitch’s real name -that being Henry Hubert Hardings. The girl must have heard it before she sharply looked up and into my corner of the room, her mouth broadening as it rested on my shattered visage.
This was a knowing smile from an unknown face.
Any other creature would be a little startled and unnerved by such a first encounter but not I.
I had long known that my so very marked countenance was easily known to any who had heard it described to them.
But her smile did linger a little longer than it ought and so did her eyes.
And they were pretty eyes that belong to pretty face.
Slight round, with soft skin and ful, strong cheeks. Framed beneath light black hair, tied in a bun, and placed upon a thick and sturdy neck. A pair of half-moon glasses sat on her slight and slightly upturned nose, above a thick and deep-flesh red lips, which her small tongue briefly skimmed over.
Whilst this silent exchange did transpire, Heh’aitch had moved to check the barrels the girl had brought up by kicking them and trying to pick them up. Now Heh’aitch was a strong man and could carry a full barrel by himself and a sharp groan and loud back crick confirmed to him, and us all, that she had indeed brought up the barrels full of larger and not the empties that he had suggested she had.
“Christ!” he muttered, straightening himself as best he could. “How the Hell did you do that, girl? Those things weigh a ton!”
“I just lifted them, Mr. Hardings,” she replied, in her sweet and softly accented voice. “They weren’t not trouble.”
“I can see that, Jane,” Heh’aitch replied.
So that was her name -Jane!
“But don’t go hurting yourself, OK?” he continued. “You father would kill me if anything happened to you.”
“Sorry, Mr. Hardings,” she seek, meekly, as she lowered her chin into her ample bosom. “I won’t do anything like that again, promise.”
“Well,” Heh’aitch muttered, rubbing his back with both hands. “See that you do.”
You could tell he had no conviction in his words as he walked away. He knew that argument was lost before it could even begin. And thus was the reason he had lived so long -Heh’aitch always knew when to walk away before trouble could even start.
“Cor!” I heard Harrow breath by my side. Apparently he had not left when he had said but had stayed to watch the new girl, Jane, carry the barrels out and observe everything that followed. “She must a strong one!”
Jane must have heard his utterance because she looked up and, knowing that Heh’aitch was else where, came over to us.
“So,” she began. “Think you’re strong do ya?”
Harrow laughed and puffed out his broad and ample chest.
“Yeah,” he muttered, as he twice tapped his chest with the palms of his large hands. “I’m not that bad.”
“Care for an armwrestle than?” she asked, placed her elbow upon the bar.
Harrow scoffed at this and looked at me a he gave a knowing laugh.
“Yeah, OK,” he muttered, as he put his elbow upon the Bar, squared against her’s.
Harrow was almost a foot and a half tall than Jane and packed with tight muscle, giving him the advantage of weight and strength over her. But still, I laughed to myself as my mind foretold the results, catching Jane’s eye once again.
Never to part from mine.
Even as Harrow’s broad hands- literally twice the sizes of hers- encircled and enclosed her dainty palms, her eyes did not leave mine and mine did not leave her’s. She held her stared as Harrow twisted his shoulder into her lean and forced his weight behind and into his wrist. But Jane’s slight hand did not move or even tremble. She just held my gaze as she held his hand -unwavering in both and unyielding to none.
The contest had gained the attention of all the Pub’s patrons and they quickly gathered around to watch the struggle, but Jane paid them no mind.
She literally only had eyes for me.
And still she stared as I stared back.
No one, not for the longest time, had held my gaze thusly. Almost all turned their eyes away after a few moments and none lasted more than 30 seconds in the struggle. They cannot bare to stare into the twain and mottle taints of irises. The deep blue of the right and the scratched green/white of the left as it lay nestled between the two halves of the long scar drawn down the sinister side of my face.
But still she stared.
Stared until a ripping noise distracted all other but I.
“Bloody ‘Ell!” someone becried. “ Er arms gettin’ bigger.”
Indeed, her arms -nigh her entire torso- was swelling larger with the effort. But it was her right bicep that was growing more noticeable to the others. I paid it no mind as I held her regard sharply, but everyone -including Harrow- was drawn inexorably towards her expanding bicep and tearing sleeve.
With a cry of utter defeat, Harrow’s body went limp and his hand was slammed into the ancient wood of the bar. A collective groan went up from the patrons before they all rapidly disbursed and tried to forget and ignore what had just transpired -both Harrow’s defeat and Jane’s mysterious and sudden growth.
As Harrow lay pained against the Bar, clutching both his strained arm and wounded pride, but Jane final release her eyes and ask of I: “Do you want to armwrestle as well?”
“Hardly,” I muttered, as I moved to stand, drawing up my full 6 foot four inch height. “Now, if you would as so kind as to excuse this useless Flesh, I must go make relievence of myself before work is to begin.

I would forever curse Heh’aitch and he in never repair the lock on the toilet door as I felt those thick and rounded arms encircle I and grasp upon me.
“Need any help finishing up?” she asked, as she came around my flank and pressed her cheek into my arm.
“Hardly,” I muttered, but my reply mattered not to her, as her grip tightened.
“Hhmmm. . .” she purred, as she flexed her fingers upon my protruding flesh. “It’s everything I was told it was.”
“Told by whom?” I inquired, knowing full well the answer.
“Julie,” she cooed in reply, pressing herself in close so I could feel ever curve and chisel of her body.
“Then she needs to know more and speak less,” I growled in reply, casting a single glance over my shoulder.
“Oh, don’t be so harsh on her,” Jane muttered, as I felt her hands come around my waist and fall upon my backside. “She just passed on information like any good friend would.”
“What ‘information’?” I did growl, as I zipped my trousers and turned around to face her.
“She me to: ‘look out for a man in an old Saval Row suit, Chinese shaped eyes, strange scarred face, really long hair and with a quiet, husky voice’,” Jane did tell me. “She said: ‘he’s just your type and you his’.”
“So you are the ‘Lady Jane’ that she doth speak oft of?” I asked, and she nodded in reply. “And why is it that our dear Julie is so sure that we are suited for each other?”
“Because she told me you’re attracted to a certain type of girl.”
“And what type would that be, pray tell?”
“Why, this type,” Jane did say, as she brought her arms up into a twin flex.
Her muscles expanded much quicker than they had when she had armwrestled Harrow mere moments ago. Her forearms, biceps and triceps tore her loose sleeves from cuff to shoulder with their rapid enlargement, their cut and peaks bring the frabic to sunder. Her deltoids, traps, lateral muscles and back muscles made short work of her blouse when coupled with and against the growth of her already ample breasts and pectorals. The tattered remains of the cloth, still held to her by her belted skirt, fell about her waist, revealing the carve and cut of her abdominals as they pushed in and out with each of her strong breaths.
“And this means to I what?” I did ask of her.
“There’s no need to play coy with me, Neon,” she breathed, as she crossed her massive forearms upon my chest and wrapped her thin fingers around the back of my’s neck. “It is ‘Neon’, isn’t it?”
“Indeed,” was my reply.
“Then why do the others all call you ‘Frankie’?” she did ask of me.
“Because of Frankenstein’s so-called Monster and my apparent resemblance to the Hollywood idealisation of him.”
Jane looked upon me with queried eyes and said: “Because of these?” as she brushed the back of her hand down and against one of the many scars that do so line my face.
“Indeed,” was my reply.
“And you have them elsewhere as well?” she asked, as she ran her fingers down my chest.
“Indeed,” were my words.
“But this is all untouched and functioning?” she asked, as she did grasp my groin.
“Again: indeed,” was my unflinching response.
“Aren’t you going to prove that to me?” she asked, as she raised a dainty eyebrow.
“And what function would that serve?” I did ask her, as shrugged and slide her touch from off upon me.
Again came her queried eyes, followed by a flash of rejection and pain.
“None,” she replied, as she quickly collected herself and subtly flexed her form as best she could.
“So why then the statement?” I asked, as I rounded my Almond-esque eyes. “Why the very utterance?”
I could tell that Jane was doing her best not to look defeated but I could see it creep upon her face. Part of my Soul cried out to give her respite and to give her pity but this was not a game I could lose. Nor she apparently, as she played a hand unexpected but not to countered.
“Are you done freshening up?” she asked, squaring herself again me. “Or do you need a bit more time?”
“What doth thou mean?” I growled, lowering myself closer to her as I heard the inclination in her voice.
Her reply was to hold a paper packet aloft and rendered I powerless.
For she her the sweetest poison. My then and potent Master in Powder.
“Missing something?” she asked, triumphantly.
My body screamed so many things at once I was internally deaf. But I was numb to all but the tiny packet she held between her thumb and forefinger.
“Julie again?” I uttered, my flesh still numb and screaming.
“Heh! Yep,” she muttered, coyly.
I held her within my Mind’s Eye for a moment, calculating all possibilities and futures that could unfold before me but, knowing none to be the best, yielding to the inevitable.
That being her.
“What doth thou want?” I asked, knowing my defeat. “What price for this all?”
“Shush,” she cooed, pressing a finger against my lips. “How  bout an indulgence first?”
And with those words, she opened the packet and tipped the powder around her neck and the very peaks of her prefect teardrop breasts.
Again, I yielded to her will as I stooped to her neck and breathed in that sweetest poison from off her silk soft flesh. She shivered and giggled as I brushed against her naked skin, tracing my course around her neck and down to her stunning bosom, curling my tongue around one proud nipple and then the next as I took my wicked and faulted Master within me. I felt her sharp gasp and intake of breath as her body went all a quiver, brushing her breasts against my ever-frozen face. Heighten her sensations further and beyond her expectations.
But again I should, ragefully denying her the full pleasure that she did so expect and demand. In this, my  waved state of loathing and pleasance, I could not gauge my true expression but nor could she it would seem, as she stared at my trembling and half closed eyes with wet lipped anticipation.
“So, name your price!” I growled, as the final washing of my then Master passed. “And it shall be paid.”
She cocked her head and laughed. Not what I had expected and thus my silent rage grew.
“Julie said you were harder to beat than this,” she laughed, but not mirthful or mockingly. “So I propose to you a challenge.”
“Name it,” I rasped. “And it shall be met.”
“Good,” she said, as she tore the tatters of her blouse from out her belt and used the scraps to wipe the sweet from off her. “When we close up tonight, I want to do to you what I did to that other bloke.”
“An armwrestling contest?” I uttered, raising a sliced through eyebrow.
But I could tell that she was serious as I looked upon her thick and glistening muscles, ripe with blood and flexation.
“Then it shall be,” I muttered, lowering my head to her. “Once all is done here and all have gone. The challenge shall be met but what rewards shall be savoured by the victor?”
“The victor?” she echoed. “The victor can do what they wish with the vanquished and the vanquish ‘has’ to do what ever it is the victory wants.”
“And if the ‘vanquished’ refuses?”
“Than it probably won’t be worth coming back because everyone will no that they can’t keep a promise.”
There was no need to consider. It was best to make it all as quick and painless as could be done.
“Agree!” I rasped, as I took her steel grip hand and gave it a single pump.“But if you would as so kind give I some privacy, I need to change.”
“As do I,” she muttered, as she glanced down at her naked torso.
And with those words, she stepped back and closed the door, leaving me to my machinations.

The night passes as swiftly as it could despite the circumstances.
I attended to my duties, which were few because of the attention Jane -freshly attired- had garnered at the Bar.
Every man had heard of her besting Harrow -once strongest amongst us- and now sought to challenge her in the same effort. And she best each one in turn. Heh’aitch did not complain of this action because it meant that the patrons -both losers and spectators- would buy more drinks in order to get a chance ‘at the title’ so to speak. And since they were almost all exhausted from the struggle, none had the energy or inclination to start any trouble, let alone a fight. But every time Jane did engage another contender, she would gaze at me and blow me subtle kisses, as if to taunt me with what was to come later.
And so the Night passed and closing came. Heh’aitch had no patience or temper to stay open after legal hours and wanted rid of everyone as soon as was possible. As was his fashion in such moods, he left I to close up and Jane quickly volunteered to help I clean before the doors were locked until the morrow.
When all were gone and all was quiet, she bid I to the Bar and placed her elbow upon it.
“You haven’t forgotten have you?” she teased. “Or do I have to drag you over here?”
A rumble rose within my throat as I made my over to where she stood. I met her gaze as I rolled back my sleeve and squared my arm against her.
She must have been at full pump, because even in the billowing expanse of her sleeve, you could see the peak of her bicep straining against the fabric, threaten to rupture it to nothing.
We locked our hands and the challenge was met.
It was an interesting contest to say the least -lasting for over an hour. For she did have the crushing strength but I had fortitude long born of my years of harsh training at the hands of my maternal Grandfather and his fighting friends. She struggled and strained as she tried to press my arm down, but I gave as little against her as I could. Holding my arm in place as best I was able but, somehow, my Heart did not ally itself to my Flesh and all my thought and form did waver.
I could see the tears well in Jane’s pretty eyes.
Did she desire victory so much?
Did she desire I so much?
Or merely the very notion of I as feed to her by our mutual friend, Julie?
It mattered not, as her will was the greater this night and I gave myself to yield, allowing my wrist to buckle and arm to be planted upon the wood.
Jane did breathe her relief at her victory bu ther face quickly become ashen as she stared at my limp wrist that lay upon the Bar.
“Oh, my God!” she cried, her hand rushing to her mouth. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to hurt you!”
“Pay it no mind, dear Lady Jane,” I uttered, as I picked up my arm and made it grip the Bar.
I then wretched it back, pulling all the bones once again into place, with a sicken ‘crack’ and ‘pop’ of joint and bone.
Jane gasped and almost shrieked when she did witness this but I felt and gave no sign of pain and showed her thusly, much to her relief.
“So,” I uttered, flexing my fingers. “What is it you do wish of this Flesh to do?”
Jane considered for a moment and then merely said: “Take me back to your place.”

The dwelling which I occupied was two bedroom flat which was then loaned to I because of other favours and relationships long since developed. It was cramped and uncomfortable but the bed was large and always inviting on English nights.
As soon as the door had closed and her bag had hit the ground, Jane had pinned I to it and drew my head down to her’s. Forcing our mouths together so hard that she almost tore my head from my shoulders. Tongue enveloped tongue as her long thing fingers began to peel and tear the clothes from off my body.
“Bedroom!” she growled, in a sexy, husky voice.
And who was I do disobey.
We stumbled into that chamber as the fire of our kissing grew more intense -to the point that she almost sucked out my very breath and being and forced I to the floor all at once. With a single swing and shove, she threw me onto the bed as if I were the slightest rag-doll and then leapt upon my prone form, placing her mouth forcefullably upon my carved neck. In a single motion, she had unbound her hair and flicked her body upright, so that she straddle my waist and bore her full and ample weight upon me.
“Are you ready for this?” she rasped huskily, as she curled her arms up in front of her chest.
Mutely, I nodded my reply and awaited what was to come.
It began with the expansion of her traps and neck, popping the upper most button from off her collar and projecting it at the bed’s headboard with a sharp ‘ping’. She then focussed on her pectorals and breasts, so that ever button accordingly burst from off her with an audible ‘pop’ and ‘ping’. Once her breasts had torn a prefect V in the front of her blouse, she strained her shoulders and her lateral muscles to tear it open further and than she arched her spine backwards, thrusting her now basketball sized breasts towards the ceiling, and flexed her abdominals. Ripping the last of the bottons from her blouse and pulling it from off her waist.
She whipped her head forward again, so that her head lashed me in the face and breasts ricocheted up and down, her hands pressing hard against my scarred and naked chest. She growled as she brought her arms up and locked her fingers behind her head, forcing power into her already bulging arms. There was no mere tearing of her sleeves but an explosion of fabric as a shower of confettied clothes came raining down upon me. The cut and split peaks of her biceps sat level with the upper tips of her ears whilst her triceps dipped down into her flaring lateral muscles, pressing both against each other. Casually, she flicked her hands outwards, casting the remains of her sleeves from off her arms. She then smothered her hands down from her neck, down her chest and over her mountainous breasts until they pressed the sides of her skirt down upon her legs and upon me.
“Are you ready for the best part?” she purred, as she snaked her torso around, jiggling her breasts with each sway.
I felt a sudden tightness around my waist as she bite her lip and straightened herself up. I could hear the course tearing of her skirt as her thighs and calf muscles expanded around and upon me. I lifted my head as best I could to see the separation and saturation of her quadriceps as they rose through the tears, expanding and hardened like an aging Elm. I could feel the growth and cut of her calf against my trapped thighs, their diamond edges digging into my supple flesh like granitic vices.
Jane then thrust herself up onto her knees and then fell forward, suspending her breasts just above my face, crushing them between her giant domed biceps. She ran her tongue over her rubied lips as she reached an arm back and tore the tattered remains of her skirt from off her waist before she sat up on her knees again and ruffled her hair wildly. She then drew her hands softly down her body, tracing every ridge and line of muscle that she could, until she hooked her thumbs into her panties and, biting her lip coyly, ripped them off in a single motion.
With as much force and menace that her lust would allow, she slammed her hands down either side of my head and stared me straight in the eye.
“Ravage me!” she commanded, like a Goddess.
“No!” I said, with final defiance, taking her aback. “You ravage me!”
And with that, she laughed and clasped her mouth once again upon my throat.

Late morning came too swiftly for comfort and Jane was sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in the clothes that she had carried in her bag. Her still steely fingers were wrapped around a few extremities of my hair as it fell about my waist. She had a coy, contented countenance to her face -like she was savouring the greatest of victories. Whilst I just lay there -vacant of thought and feeling. Letting wash over me as was my fashion.
Jane draped herself over me and kissed me with a soft passion but her form was quickly made rigid as she heard the unfastening of the locks.
“Who’s that?” she asked, looking at me.
“My final hand,” I muttered, as I sat up.
“Neon!” came the sturdy, masculine voice through the opening door and in stepped my then companion. All muscle and brilliance in the morning, fresh from work and a workout, he stepped inside the bedroom.
“Here, Travious!” I called to him.
“Still in bed?” he sighed, folding his arms across his thick chest.
“Indeed,” I uttered, tossing my hair back over my shoulder.
“And who is this?” he asked, nodding his head in Jane’s direction.
“The Lady Jane,” I replied.
Travious’ eyes flashed with recognition of the name and he said: “Ah! Young Julie’s friend! How are you, dear?”
“Uh, I’m well,” was all she could uttered. “And you?”
“I’m good,” he replied, in his mottled accent. “But hungry. Want anything, Neon?”
“No,” I replied. “I’m fine for now.”
“Ok, then,” he said. “Back in second.”
“Ah-hem!” I coughed. “Travious! Are we forgetting something?”
I snapped my fingers and pointed at the edge of the bed. Travious did sigh and come over to the bed, leaning down and lower than myself, raising up and pursing his lips. And we kissed out passionate greeting kiss.
From out the corner of my eye, I could not tell if Jane was going to faint or be sick. Her skin had so quickly drawn pale that it was as though she had a coloured screen dropped in front of her.
With any ado, Travious left the room in order to fix his food and that left Jane and I alone again.
“Who was that?!” she screamed.
“Travious,” I replied, casually stretching my legs out before flipped them out onto the floor. “We met in Italy several months ago and he has travelled with me ever since. A good companion and a trusted friend to say the least of him.”
“But you kissed him?!” she cried.
“Indeed,” I replied, as I stood and drew on my robe.
“You kissed him like you kissed me!” she howled.
“And how else would I kiss him?” I asked of her, as I fastened my robe and drew back my hair again, binding it with a thin black cord.
“But you’re. . .” she stuttered. “With me. . . You’re not. . . Like that. . .”
I sighed and turned to her.
“I am I,” were my words. “There is nothing else I can be.”
I stared into her eyes and gaze finally broke.
“But You. . .”
“‘I’ what? Submitted to you as he does submit to I. Thus is my nature. I desire not ‘femina’ nor do I desire ‘masculus’ as is the way or fashion of your ilk. In this matter I am empty; I am void! You took of my Flesh because of your desire. I gave of my Flesh to feed your desire. He has not tasted my Flesh nor I his because such is not our fashion. I lay with the ‘femina’ of the race only when they do will it but no pleasure does it truly gain. Nor does my dominance of the ‘masculus’ kind. I gave to you because it was what you wanted and your desire was so strong you would not find end to satisfy it and thus harm would be done by you upon yourself. The flesh was given but nothing else. There is not what you call ‘love’ in this Heart, merely a hollow Nothingness born of failed Nature. Thus this is and this is thus: no more.”
And I let my words play upon her ears. My final hand in a most cruel game -one we both vowed never to lose- the Truth.
And with such words, Jane did leave, with teary eyes. Victory in the end was mine but how hollow did it feel.
I knew that she would not speak of what happened and my spirit did call to me, crying that it was time to travel once again. To Drift, to Wander. To See, to Feel. No words spoken in parting and thus I leave, Travious in tow but not for much longer -I leave him with another and better companion and journey ever on until the Now and the Knowing.
Jane and I only see each other 3 times since that morn. I want to believe that she has come to understand what I am and what I was that day but I do know she understood my lesson to her: that Truth and Desire are but blunted edges of the same sword.
And that Truth is cruel and Cruelty lies in Truth.