her quickly approaching release, wanting to prolong the sweet agony for as long as possible. The elongated pleasure tore through her body, leaving her raw and inflamed, yet still crying out for more.
And it suddenly occurred to her that the entire universe was centered on her. Hadn’t she known this, even when she was just a tiny babe, crying out for her mother? Then, she thought it out of ignorance, but now the thought appeared to be a result of a higher knowledge, and possibly all she had to do was acknowledge that it was so.
But none of this was important at the moment. All that mattered was that the forces around her kept giving her this pleasure. She could think of no more important endeavor than the one she struggled with now, and every part of her strained to keep her body from succumbing to the overwhelming sensations. But the pleasure assailed her from every angle—from the gently chiding whipping of the vines against her swollen breasts, to the excruciatingly deep penetration of the stamen that she was forced to not only endure but to meet head-on, to the little knot in her honeysuckle hammock that kept rubbing against her clitoris, to, finally, the coarse chafing of the iris’s bristly bearded head as it teased and tickled her anus beyond what she could endure. All of these stimuli Catherine had to fight against in order to prolong her pleasure, and her efforts caused her desire to build with an intensity she had never felt before. The sky above her appeared to darken in response to the growing storm within her. It seemed to mirror her frustration in its angry countenance, and the wind also increased its energies as if to join in. Her nipples began to sting smartly from the whip of the punishing honeysuckle vines.
Like a clap of angry thunder, her satisfaction struck her, loud and deep and harsh. Her body shook with large, quaking tremors that startled her. She screamed in protest, but already the stark pleasure was waning into trickling waves that fluttered through her. But the force of it left her sated and content and subdued.
The wind died down, and Catherine now found herself resting unencumbered in her flowery hammock. She turned onto her back and allowed it to rock her gently to sleep.
And so it happened that Catherine took up residence in the enchanted forest, without ever sparing a single thought to the life she left behind. The forest kept her so captivated that she could no longer remember that there was anything to go back to. Had she kept a memory of her other life, it would have only pricked or irritated anyway. But even this much was spared her. She could no longer call to mind even the smallest detail.
This new life consisted only of pleasure. Like the fairies she imagined to be all around her, Catherine flitted from one end of her enchanted forest to the other. She had developed a sort of primitive communication with these beings she believed were fairies. They did not speak, yet they were there with her. She felt she understood them. She had come to respect their reserved silence, believing them to be timid and skittish because she, too, now preferred to be kept hidden from others. Yet she acknowledged their presence in a number of innocuous little ways, such as leaving them treats here and there—much as she believed they did for her from time to time—and in wishing them the goodwill that she felt they had likewise brought upon her.
Yet real communication, as she had formerly known it to be, did not seem possible. That there was intelligence and reason around her she could not, for a moment, doubt. But there was no one to speak her language to, no one to address her in her native tongue.
One day, perhaps it was months or possibly even years after she had first discovered the enchanted forest, Catherine stumbled upon something peculiar that captured her attention. She instantly recognized it as something coming from the other world outside the forest, although she didn’t know what it was or how she knew this. It was a strange object, something not indigenous to her forest. There was something about it that caused it to stand out from the rest of the surroundings, like something alien. Its colors were what she noticed first, for they had an unnaturally dull tint, completely void of the brilliance she had become accustomed to seeing in the wildflowers of the forest. These colors seemed a poor imitation, and she wondered how they had got there.
Curious, Catherine reached down and picked up the foreign object. It was not terribly large but it was quite heavy. It was orange and yellow, with orange bands coming out the sides of it. One of the bands appeared to be broken. It seemed that beneath its outer casing, it held more objects inside. She noticed that there was a strange seam all along the edge of it, and an eerie sense of déjà vu crept over Catherine as she grasped hold of the little tab at the end and slid it backward along the seam, opening the outer casing. She fished through the many different objects that were inside but, try as she might, she couldn’t figure out what they were. The peculiar feeling stayed with her as she stared at them uncomprehendingly. But eventually she lost interest and laid the objects back down where she found them. Yet there was undeniably something strange in all of this, if only for the unusual effect it was having on her. Catherine stood up and looked around. And then she noticed something else—something she did recognize—in the plush woods nearby. More curious than ever, she moved nearer. Upon closer inspection, she saw that it was, in fact, hair. But it was hard to tell if came from an animal or human because, whatever it was, was hidden in the bushes nearby. Something stirred in Catherine.
She moved carefully, not really out of fear as much as instinct to be cautious. She tentatively moved some of the branches aside to get a better view, but then abruptly jumped back. The hair was attached to a skull! Just as Catherine had instantly recognized the overabundance oflife stirring all around her in the forest, she now instantly perceived that life had gone from here. A haunting sadness welled up in her. She moved the branches away again and carefully brushed aside some of the fallen leaves and other debris. There was another brief moment of a kind of general, vague recognition, but Catherine was far too detached from the faded thing disintegrating into the earth to actually own it. She shook off the discomfiting stirrings. But she could not help feeling a powerful compassion for the woman who had died there.
Looking up, Catherine noticed that dusk was coming. For the first time since that day when she had first discovered the enchanted forest, she was afraid to be wandering alone in the dark. Yet she was hesitant to leave the poor girl alone. Acting on instinct, she carefully replaced the leaves and brush over the body, mindful this time to cover the woman’s hair, as well. Next she darted off to a nearby field to collect a handful of wildflowers. Uttering a small prayer for the woman’s soul, Catherine placed the flowers on top of her leafy grave. With one last pause, she got up, brushing the leaves and the strange melancholy off her. Then, with the adroitness of a spirit, or a fairy, she flitted out over the flowery field, fluttering toward home and the pleasures that awaited her.
Disenchantment
Everything was going wrong and now, on top of everything else, she was late. Maryanne skittered over the wet cobblestones, rushing to get to the restaurant. She would be a mess by the time she arrived. But she’d had to drive four blocks away just to find parking!
Why was she even bothering? She tried to silence the pessimistic voice in her head but it would not relent. It reminded her that she had no reason to expect this guy to be different from any of the others. There was nothing special or noteworthy about him that made it worth the effort. Even by online-dating standards he had offered little intrigue, and with all the embellishing that takes place in preparing one’s online profile, that was rather dismaying. She tried to recall what prompted her to go out with him, and then she remembered that he had caught her in a weak moment when, feeling unsettled and lonely, she suddenly longed for a normal life with an average guy. So here she was, on a Friday night, rushing around to meet this average or—more likely—less-than-average guy.
She took a deep breath and tried once again to assume a positive outlook. At least she was getting out of the house. It could be interesting. She might as well try to have a good time. There didn’t have to be any entanglements. She couldn’t hide forever.
And perhaps this one would work out differently. But
