FRAGMENT

by Kitty Fisher

Rite and ritual. Shamanic journey into darkness; conjured and guided and bullied and cajoled into giving up the secret darkness of self.

Taken beyond where identity has meaning. Self as nothing but this speck of time, this hair's–breadth of eternity. This instant of being held in the other's hand, in being theirs; instrument of pleasure, receptor of pain. Wild freedom in the loss of everything but this, this moment that swoops into flight, lifted by the soaring thermals of need.

You are mine. Don't think. Don't move. Don't feel without permission.

Pleasure held just... in this breath, here, now. Muscles burning, skin wrapped so perfectly around the grace of body, of flesh and bone and ...

Pain.

Shuddering, convulsing pain that wipes away sight and smell and desire and want. The whip as conduit. Sweet, like Lethe, addictive since the world began.

Pain as perfect enlightenment; eucharistic, euphoric.

Whipmarks like runes blazing across the planes and curves of back and rib, buttock and thigh. Half forgotten language of another time, another place, the something that in everyday is lost in translation, here found fully understood. Runic language of the spirit–self, written — flayed onto his skin.

This moment. Held here. Cupped in the strength of Clark's hand. The perfection of this belonging so absolutely. Loved so completely.

Truth, proven.

A hand touching. Earthing him.

Sudden shock of knowing. Back in his skin, inhabiting time. Stretched and broken, reassembled by a kiss.

Beautiful, Lex.

Turning his head, sweat blurring his sight. A smile. Returned ten–fold. Reassurance, here, in this look, in this center of a turning universe. In this place that is theirs, and theirs alone.

END