Revelations (13 page)

But not an insurmountable problem. We’ve already gotten past two thousand years of lusting after one another in our hearts, just in order to be here. What else can compete with that? Seriously? Certainly not the lack of any proper sort of lube about my person. I wasn’t expecting this, I admit it. I don’t carry a tube of lubrication about on the off-chance I might be in the mood to have sex and might find a willing partner. But nature is known to produce her own, so we’re still very much in business, as the saying goes.

My first thought is simply to make him comfortable with his body and mine, with our bodies together. I shift my weight so I’m not directly on top of him, but lying beside him, propped up onto one elbow. I reach for one of his hands, he gives it willingly. First I kiss each fingertip, lingeringly, my eyes locked onto his, feeling him shiver at my touch. I take one sweet finger between my lips and suckle at it gently, which elicits an unexpected moan from Jesus. An auspicious start. And to think, we’ve only just begun.

“Do you want to touch me?” I ask. He nods almost shyly. I take his hand and touch it to my bare chest. The hair there is neither thick nor abundant, being rather fine and difficult to see, as light as it is, against the backdrop of my pale skin. I pass his fingers over each of my nipples, and I mirror this by touching his own duskier nubs. Women don’t have the market cornered on having erotic nipples, after all, far from it, but not all men realize that fact, or utilize it. Once I see he gets the idea, I take his hand again, and show him how to lightly pinch one of my nipples, just enough to cause it to stand up and take notice. His touch feels so good.

I can’t help but be pleased that he’s so eager to learn. As eager as I am to teach.

“Touch me,” he murmurs, willing me to take the lead, and of course I comply.

I’d do anything he asks of me, and I don’t mind being first. He can always follow my lead.

I begin with his beautiful lips, but rather than devour them, I pace myself, taking my time, showing Jesus of what use a tongue can be. He allows mine entrance, and I move inside his mouth, touching his tongue, touching the roof of his mouth, everything I can reach, encouraging him to touch me in a similar fashion. If at first he seems hesitant, he quickly grows bolder, sucking at my tongue eagerly before moving inside of my mouth, reversing our positions.

He’s a quick study.

When I draw back from our kiss at last, I can feel his disappointment, his body arching toward mine involuntarily, and I press a soft kiss against those slightly swollen lips. “You’ll like the rest,” I promise. I am rewarded with his beautiful smile—I would kill to protect that smile, I would.

I want all of him, and I want to touch him—everywhere—and do everything that my fertile imagination can conceive of, and yet I also know we don’t have time for everything. Not right now, anyway. Is it arrogance on my part that presumes there will be another time? Or is it that I know him so well I know he hasn’t entered into this lightly, there must be something in the future for us? But our time is so short, just a few days left. A very few days. Didn’t I say I just knew this would be the hardest incarnation of all? Now I know why.

I push unpleasantness aside, concentrating on this beautiful man I love so very much. Nothing else. Not now. Nothing exists besides him and I. Nothing. We’re here and now and that’s all that matters.

I begin a trail, starting with his mouth, my fingers stroking and reassuring as I kiss and nip along his jaw line, before beginning a more southerly journey. Down along his neck, pausing at his pulse point, feeling his life with my lips. I find myself fascinated, and for a few moments I hold my position there before I begin to move once more, slow and easy, across his chest, grateful that it is a warm night, and also that there is more than enough moonlight to see this most beautiful sight.

I can’t resist kissing each nipple lightly, pulling one into my mouth, suckling at it, my actions eliciting more moans from Jesus. I’ve always wondered what Jesus would say when caught up in the throes of passion, surely not his own name? Now I know…the only name he utters is my own. And yes, it’s a balm to my aching soul.

I pause long enough to look up into his eyes, the starlight reflected in their dark depths, and I see his aura is pulsing about him. I imagine my own is too, my entire being alive with this very moment.

I resume my kissing of his beautiful body, licking and tasting his tan skin, touching him everywhere I can reach. I can feel his fingers in my hair again. His very touch is taking me far too close to the edge for comfort, and I need to find an image that will stem this treacherous tide before it releases prematurely, against my will. I have it, the very thing—Mary M naked. A repulsive thought in and of itself that serves to bring the situation under my control once again.

Having traversed the soft flesh of his chest, I bury my nose in the dark nest of his curls, inhaling him as much as I can, taking in his scent—a sensuous mixture of olives and lemons with just a hint of musk, and something else that is wholly Jesus.

I’m extremely hard, and my own hardness is weeping profusely. A good thing, I know, and rather useful.

Jesus is my first and only priority—his comfort, his needs, his pleasure, his everything. He’s the first virgin I’ve ever been with. First and last now, actually, for I’ll never have another lover. Ever. I don’t want to frighten him, or to displease him. And I definitely don’t want to move too quickly either, although my body has other opinions on the matter. Luckily, I’m still in control of my second brain—at least at the moment.

I kiss the tip of him. My eyes search his face, looking for a reaction. I know he’s never been touched here before, and if I had to guess, he’s probably not touched himself either. Hopefully he’ll enjoy the sensations I’m about to offer him.

One look at his expression reassures me; his kiss-swollen lips are parted breathily.

He seems to be very content with what we are doing, with what I’m doing to him.

So I continue.

What I need right now, more than anything, is to kiss him, to feel his lips against mine, to know that he’s all right with what we’re doing, and to make sure he likes it. Of course he likes it, what’s not to like. I mean what I’m doing. To him.

With him. Gah, I’m so inarticulate all of a sudden. I just need to make sure he’s okay.

I slide up his warm body in order to claim that kiss, but his lips are on mine before I can even say a word, and he’s taking my very breath away with the intensity of his need and I cease to question anything anymore. Everything’s perfect. Just like him.

Our bodies are pressed tightly together now, as tightly as our lips, and all I seem capable of are guttural moans, but that’s okay, he’s making them too. At least we’re speaking the same language, whatever that might be.

And then he surprises me. Not by the words of love he whispers into my lips, not in the way he caresses my name with his tongue, almost like a prayer. Or even the look in his eyes that speaks volumes more than mere words ever could. His touch is both gentle and confident. I might have to rethink that whole never touched himself thing, I think.

“I love you,” he whispers, and any thoughts I once possessed of doing anything else have flown from my head, to be resurrected at a later date, no pun intended.

This feels too good to stop, this feels too amazing, even. And it feels too immediate. I shatter into a million pieces, and he picks me up, every last piece, and puts me back together again. He is perfect.

For once I’m speechless. Anything I can think of to say falls into the category of too trite, too banal, or too stupid. Perhaps words are simply not needed.

“Stay with me, tonight,” he asks, and I cannot deny him this request. Not now, not ever. “Please don’t leave me…” As if I ever could. I think he knows better than that. At least he should, by now.

I offer to go get a blanket from the tent, to cover us, but at my suggestion he clings to me and simply says, “No, don’t go.”

In the back of my mind, a niggling thought attempts to make itself heard, but I push it aside, intent upon preserving this moment for as long as possible. This perfect moment. This perfect fucking moment. Everything’s perfect, all’s right with the world, as we cuddle together in our post-coital bliss, hold one another, and bask in the glow of our newly-confessed love.

And that’s the moment, of course, when all hell breaks loose.

I don’t believe I’ve properly introduced myself—or the self that my adoring followers have come to know and love. Mr. Lassiter, at your service—founder and leader of the Citizens Opposed to Carnal Knowledge group. Or C.O.C.K. for short.

I do find it amusing, does that answer your next question?

They are so insufferably self-righteous and intolerant—and very easily led. Not an independent mind among them. Makes things much easier for me. I do have a function in the scheme of things, you know. Someone has to assure that Jesus ends up as a martyr, otherwise the whole story is ruined. Wouldn’t want that, now would we?

Like taking candy from a baby.

They are both so utterly ridiculous. As if I couldn’t push their every buttons?

As if I did not orchestrate this very thing? That fucking Judas owes me a big one; it’s time he repaid his debt. After two thousand years I got him the thing he wanted most. How very fucking wonderful of me. It’s a shame I’m breaking it up now, too.

How? Oh, did I forget to mention that part? I persuaded the local constabulary that Jesus is a menace to society—a savior by any other name—and they finally obtained an arrest warrant. Standard charges—contributing to the delinquency, lewd and lascivious, a touch of pedophilia for good measure. You know how it goes.

I led them myself, disguised as one of them. They never knew. Very satisfying indeed. We found them stretched out together in all their naked glory by that miserable excuse of a pond they like to hang around. They weren’t hard to miss.

I’d have taken the time to soak in such a lovely sight, but alas, the local fuzz had other ideas.

Judas should thank me for keeping him from being arrested, too, the way he sprang at them. Unarmed, luckily. I grabbed his arms as they arrested Jesus. At least they allowed him the dignity of his robes before they took him away. As he passed close to me, I whispered in his ear, still restraining the struggling Judas, who was doing his damnedest to get arrested, the idiot, “You should’ve done it my way,” before they led him off.

Damn, that miserable Iscariot bit me. He’s too wild for his own good. Too volatile, and too easy to agitate. I should know, I do it on purpose, after all. Before he has a chance to do it again, I render him unconscious in my own inimitable way.

He slumps against me, and I lay him back upon the ground, first kissing him gently.

I can’t say I didn’t consider taking advantage of the situation. After all, how often is it that I find Judas unconscious and pliable? But there is a distinct lack of couth in fucking an unconscious man.

Next time, Judas. It’s only going to get worse for you. It’s written, you know.

And you can’t change Fate.

It’s not for myself that I mind, it’s for Jude. I never meant to do this to him, never meant to hurt him. Not like this, not this way. Not any way. Why did it have to be so early, and why tonight of all nights? Everything was perfect, so very perfect. And beautiful. He’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever known, inside and out, despite what the others think of them. They don’t know, they don’t see him the way I do. I realize that’s partially his own fault—he can have a bit of a nasty disposition. I’m also painfully aware of what they’ve done to him—in my name and on my behalf. It’s a mutually antagonistic relationship. I find it hard to blame Judas for not caring for them, nor trusting them, under the circumstances.

Father, I have to tell you something. Something important. Judas has taught me something. He taught me the meaning of love. I’ve never truly understood the word until this night—not in this way. Ours is a love like no other. Is it wrong of me to want time to share this love with him, at least for a little while?

Father, please...to what purpose? Why did I gain him only to lose him so soon?

We had a few more days, didn’t we? A few more days we could’ve spent together?

He looked so lost, struggling against them, and though I tried to tell him not to, he didn’t listen. He was far too irrational to listen. They called him names—called us names. I don’t mind for myself, but it broke my heart to see him like that. I was unable to even touch him one last time, to tell him to be strong for me. For us.

Is there an us? Will there ever be again?

It’s the beginning of the end now, I realize this. I accept this, it is meant to be.

But please, please, please, tell me there was some point to this, for otherwise, I’ve only hurt him even more by showing him that I love him. Is that right? Is that fair to either one of us?

Father, help him, please. Help Judas, please.

I do love him so very much.

All right now, can’t panic, mustn’t lose my shit. That won’t help anything, not anything at all. I have to stay calm for Jesus’ sake. He needs us all to be calm, to proceed as we were meant to. Even if the schedule seems to be disrupted.

But holy shit, I just really want to know what happened. I can’t get a straight answer out of anyone. Something happened after the show last night, obviously, but what? Judas knows. He was there when it happened. But he isn’t talking.

About anything. And that’s what scares me. I mean, usually that man will talk your ear off, like he has a motorized mouth or something, and usually about nothing of interest to anyone. Well, when I tried my damnedest to push some of his buttons, the way I always do—he never even took the bait. Never said a word.