Saoirse
Post Reply
 
Thread Rating:
  • 0 Votes - 0 Average
  • 1
  • 2
  • 3
  • 4
  • 5
19-01-2013, 05:36 PM (This post was last modified: 19-01-2013 06:53 PM by Misanthropik.)
Saoirse
(The following is the intellectual property of yours truly. It is not explicit in any way, though it does contain heavily suggestive material. It's also dripping with ooey-gooey, lovey-dovey crap. Anyone who's not a chick will find it boring)

Saoirse

I remember when I first saw her. The breeze flowing through her golden brown hair and the orange light of the setting sun glistening in her piercing green eyes. There was something tantalizing, yet mischievous in her slender form - hugged tightly by a blood-red dress - as she glided to and fro among the market booths where buyers and sellers conversed and shouted; sounds which were all but nonexistent when her eyes met mine. My heart skipped a beat and ice flooded my stomach when we became aware of one another’s presence there in the street. Two people among hundreds, connecting by sheer coincidence - or perhaps something more? - and with an immediate bond so strong that it seemed to freeze time for an instant. She gently bit her lower lip and flashed a devilish grin as she danced her way to a nearby booth. I was just a 19-year-old American boy who had never ventured much further than the general store down the street from my childhood home. I had little experience with girls, and what little experience I did have was nothing to boast about.
But then, there I was; thousands of miles away from home at the behest of a scholarship at one of the most prestigious schools in England. Possessed by the spirit of exploration and a thirst for experience, I ventured beyond the immediate realm of the Crown and endeavored to fulfill what had been a secret, yet deeply-seeded desire to visit the rolling, mist-covered hills of Ireland. Having made my way to the coast, I chartered a ferry to carry me to Belfast, where I hitched my way across the countryside with nothing more than a suitcase in my hand, the clothes on my back and the smell of unfamiliar air in my lungs.
It was only three days later that I found myself wandering the bustling marketplace in a part of the country who’s name I did not know - nor have I succeeded in finding out. I was a young boy chasing the thrill of the unknown, and when I found myself trapped within her gaze, I was overcome with an intensity much greater than any I had yet tasted over the course of my travels. As she stood beside the booth, gliding her long and flowing fingers over the bundles of fresh fruit and vegetables, I felt an urge building within me which equaled; then surpassed the desire for adventure which had ultimately lead me to this place. She was not just a girl, such as the ones I knew back home, for she was certainly almost twice my age. In many ways, she was not even merely a woman. She was a temptress who’s intoxicating allure dripped the intensity of the succubi of medieval lore; her come hither demeanor a tantalizing amalgam of all that is beautiful and desirable and forbidden. But it was much more than a desire; it was a need. Whatever happened to me in my life from this point forth; I must have her.
Pushing my way through the constantly shifting maze of bodies which clogged the walkways of the marketplace, I made my way in her direction; my eyes never venturing from her beautiful and flowing physique. But as I drew closer, she lifted her gaze to me and, with a sly smile, she started in the other direction. As she did so, I made greater haste in my pursuit. I watched as she bobbed and weaved through the venders and the booths, pausing every so often to ensure that I was still following her winding path. Indeed I was, and with all the intensity of a wolf as it stalks the lamb. She slithered like the serpent and pranced like the tiger; evading my pursuit but ensuring that I never lost track of her. She was playful in her evasion. Tempting. No doubt gaining as much enjoyment out of slipping away from my grasp as I was out of attempting to capture her within it.
After some time, the Sun was setting and our pursuit lead us to a dark cobblestone street lined with centuries-old shops and inns. The street was still littered with people, though less so than it had been in the marketplace, and as I stood to retain my line of sight above the heads of passersby, I watched her ascend the three short steps to a pub which was tucked into a dark corner of the street. When she reached the top of the steps, she paused and glanced back at me as if to invite me to follow. She then slipped inside and out of view.
Hastily, I made my way to the pub entrance where I ascended the three old wooden stairs and pushed open the door. Inside, the lighting was dim and the atmosphere alive with the sounds of laughter and merry conversation. Taking no more than two steps through the small enclosed walkway which completed the entrance, I stood in the middle of the pub, and my eyes immediately began darting back and forth in search of her. The bar in front of me was crowded with rowdy men clanging their beer mugs and spilling the contents, while the nearby tables were packed with friends and neighbors enjoying their respective beverages as they laughed and carried on about god knows what. Everywhere there was celebration and enjoyment, but nowhere could I find the woman for whom I had been longing since her eyes first met mine in the marketplace. I slowly began to wander through the pub, scouring every table and booth and corner for her tempting figure, but to no avail. Many people looked curiously at the stranger in their midst as I weaved my way through the crowd, but their gazes were of no importance to me. I was searching for the gaze of just one - if only I could find her.
Then, to my relief, I spied her; sitting alone at a small, round table in a far corner of the pub. One smooth, glistening leg was draped over the other and her finger slowly glided across the outer rim of a crystal glass filled half-way with scotch. And all the while, her eyes - those tempting, intoxicating eyes - were fixed directly upon me.
I made my way across the pub and casually approached the table at which she was seated.

“Do you mind if I sit down?” I asked, surprising myself with an unexpected air of calmness.

Her response came in the form of the most entrancing Irish accent to ever roll forth from so perfect a tongue, and it sent a chill through the entirety of my frame. “I’d be delighted if you did.”

For what felt like hours, we sipped a nicely-aged scotch and spoke with one another about everything from my life in America to the circumstances which brought me to this particular village in this particular part of the country. Her curiosity was tremendous and her eyes never faltered from mine as she clung to every word which emanated from my mouth. But while I spoke freely of my experiences and the goings on in my life, she retained a constant measure of reservation which only added to the mystery and allure which radiated from her very form. This was perhaps intentional on her part; an attempt to keep me clinging to her like a fish upon a hook. An attempt which, much to our mutual enjoyment, was successful. The only intimate detail she had yet revealed to me was that her name was Saoirse. (Seer-sha)
After a considerable time had passed, the spirit of the scotch had thoroughly embraced me and I desired to do little more than stare at her perfect form, which seemed to emanate a warm, radiant glow in the dimness of the pub. No doubt having experience in matters of libation (experience which greatly surpassed my own), she saw that I had reached my capacity and proposed that we make our way outside into the cool night air. She extended her hand and I happily obliged, following her as she lead me from our small, private corner; through the subdued chaos of the pub and outside into the refreshing April breeze. I retained extensive presence of mind, though I confess that my gait possessed the slightest of stumbles, as we basked in the glow of the street lamps and the starry skies above as we walked, hand in hand, down the expanse of the cobblestone street. While Saoirse’s demeanor was more restrained than it had been before, she maintained an air of playful empowerment which simmered just underneath the surface.
After having walked for some distance, we noticed the sound of a bumbling taxi as it sputtered its way down the cobblestone street in our direction. Saoirse extended her hand into the air and signaled for the taxi to stop. After it came to a halt beside us, I sought to overcome any preconceived notions she may have held of spoiled, unchivalrous American males, and promptly opened the door for her. She looked at me with a smile of satisfaction and flattery as I helped her into the back seat of the vehicle. I followed suit, and the taxi sputtered down the road in the direction of whatever shire or more or ford she had requested in her beautifully fluent, yet occasionally undecipherable accent.
We drove for more than an hour, and for the duration of the ride, she sought to become more intimately acquainted with me in the darkness of the back seat. Her hands glided softly across my arm and her fingers slid temptingly along the inside edge of my collar. Meanwhile, my hands cascaded across the softness of her skin and my fingers along the extent of her slender neck as I brushed her golden brown hair away from her face; tucking it lovingly behind her ear. I felt the warmth of her breath brushing across my face and neck, and soon, her soft lips were pressed against mine as her fingers gripped and tugged at the torso of my shirt.
As the hour-long journey reached its end, the taxi approached a small cottage seated upon the side of a hill, overlooking a vast flat-land and mountains lining the star-filled horizon. The cottage was built of stone masonry and its dark windows were lined with stained wood shutters. The chimney which sprouted from atop the roof billowed a steady stream of white smoke which lifted into the night sky and out of view. The taxi came to a halt on the dirt road beside the house; Saoirse paid the driver and we both exited the car. As the taxi chugged and sputtered away, we walked toward the cottage, arm in arm.

“I have a lovely bottle of Fion in the cellar that I save for special occasions” she said. “Perhaps you’d like to join me for a glass?”

I happily agreed as she broke free of my arm and scampered teasingly to the door. The solid wood door opened with a loud creak and she turned, took me by the hand, and eagerly pulled me inside. The entrance to the cellar was a doorway tucked into an unassuming corner of the cottage, followed by a rickety staircase which lead down into the darkness of the cellar below. She lit a candle and pursed her smooth, sultry lips to extinguish the wood match. With candlelight to guide our descent, we entered the cellar; dark and cool with a stale but not unpleasant smell of the dry stone which lined the walls and covered the expanse of the floor. In the center of the room was a wooden table surrounded by four chairs. She sat the candle upon the table and urged me to take a seat. As I did so, she casually made her way to a nearby support beam where she struck another match and lit an oil lamp which was fixed upon the beam’s side. The flame of the lamp grew quite tall and illuminated the entirety of the cellar with a dim, flickering glow. Lining the walls were numerous wooden cubbies with glistening glass bottles seated firmly inside. She must have been a collector, and for some time, because there were hundreds of cubby holes, and a dark bottle of wine fixed within each one; covered with a thin film of dust betraying the years passed since its introduction into the cellar.
Wasting no time, she approached the nearby wall of cubbies and glided her fingers down a row of bottles. She settled on a bottle about half-way down the shelf and gently pulled it out by the neck. She blew the dust from its surface (I suppose there hadn’t been many special occasions in years past) and brought it to the table where she sat it down in front of me.

“This,” she began, “is a bottle of red wine passed down to me by me father.” As she explained, she ventured to a nearby shelf where she retrieved a small wooden box. “He were a man of exquisite taste in the finest of wines, and it’s said that he passed this particular bottle on to me from his father before him.”

After placing the box onto the table, she opened it carefully and revealed two glistening wine glasses laying inside; secured in place by a bed of bright red velvet. She wrapped her long fingers around the necks of the glasses and removed them from the box; placing one in front of me and the other in front of herself. She then removed a wood-handled cork-remover which had been seated alongside the glasses. As she uncorked the wine, she continued to explain the history of this particular bottle in the same tantalizing accent which both captivated and hypnotized me. Her movements were fluid and sensual as she poured the deep red wine into our respective goblets. It was then that she raised her glass to mine; clinking their edges together before we proceeded to indulge ourselves in the perfectly aged, perfectly sweet and perfectly warm essence which filled them.
As we sat, alone in the cellar; sipping our wine and romanticizing about the history of the cottage and the familial significance of the bottle from which we drank, our eyes were locked upon one another as though by some unseen magnetic or spiritual force. Hers glistened in the flickering light of the candles and her red dress gave off a profoundly ominous glow in contrast with the dim atmosphere of the cellar. It was soon that our hands gripped and caressed one another upon the table, and our words became slower and more poetic as they slid candidly from our lips. Before long, passion had taken us by force and we found ourselves locked in each other’s embrace. Our lips hugged and our tongues danced as we made passionate love against the stone wall of the cellar.
It was then when I realized that all of my previous boyhood endeavors in pursuit of the Female entity had been in vain; for it was not until that moment in the dimly-lit corner of the cellar that I became a man in the truest sense. Not merely an object, but an object of desire. A desire which transcended the yearning of the flesh and entered the realm of the existential. It was not that two people were intertwined in a turmoil of spiritual bliss; it was that she and I were those very people. For those long, chaotic moments, the outside world ceased to exist. All that existed were we. Her hot breath against my lips. Her warm flesh against mine. Her arms wrapped tightly around my torso and her legs around my hips. Her hair as it glided through my fingers and her piercing green eyes staring deeply into mine. For what seemed like hours, our separate bodies had converged and it became as though we were sharing the same tremendous heartbeat. It was, and remains the most liberating and spiritually fulfilling experience of my life.
For the next several weeks, we existed as a unit. We spent our days traveling the countryside, and our nights locked in one another’s embrace. We trekked on horseback into the hills and pastures and made love in the fields of golden grass and upon the warm sun-lit rocks which littered the landscape. We bathed in the secluded rivers which snaked through the flatlands and napped under the shade of the Willow. We would often venture into the nearby villages, where we would sip wine and marvel at the street performers who lingered amidst the sellers and their customers. Saoirse was captivated by men who dressed as jesters and juggled torches of fire. She would stare for long intervals in wonder and amazement at the thrilling sense of danger and excitement which they represented. She was truly a free spirit, hungry for adventure and thrilled by the taste of experience. Perhaps she saw such a spirit in me, and that is why she instigated our game of cat and mouse through the marketplace that day so many weeks ago.
Some time had passed and I had all but completely forgotten about the scholastic endeavors waiting for me back in England. But I did not care. What I was experiencing was worth more than any scholarship or masters degree could ever afford me. This was true adventure. This was true freedom. This was Saoirse.
Inevitably, I did have to return to the life which I had been working so many years to cultivate. On a sunny afternoon in late October - nearly seven months after her gaze first froze the blood in my veins - I embraced Saoirse in a long and passionate farewell. I fought back my own tears as I pressed my lips against hers; savoring the sweet and smooth taste of her affection as she pulled me close against her body. Soon, her grip loosened and our hands, contrary to what we had wished, escaped each other’s grasp and I boarded the ferry. The horn sounded and the boat began to pull away slowly; leaving the dock further and further behind. A tear rolled down my cheek as I stood at the railing, watching in awe and sorrow as she stood on the water’s edge; the breeze blowing softly through the same red dress she had worn on the day we first met.
As I departed, there came a sound which emanated from her lips as she shouted something to me. I maintain that her accent was still somewhat difficult to understand at times; despite the fact that I had grown accustomed to it over the past several months. And with the distance from the shore and the sloshing sound of the water beneath the boat, I cannot be sure that I heard her correctly. But knowing my Saoirse; her unrelenting spirit of adventure and exploration and the love which she had so brazenly expressed to me during our time together, I am confident that I accurately deciphered the words which she cast to me like a messenger dove as the ferry slowly made its way out of the bay.

“You will find me once again!”

Through profound pain comes profound knowledge.
Ridi, Pagliaccio, sul tuo amore infranto! Ridi del duol, che t'avvelena il cor!
Visit this user's website Find all posts by this user
Like Post Quote this message in a reply
19-01-2013, 05:39 PM
RE: Saoirse
Odd though it may be; this commercial is what inspired the story.



Through profound pain comes profound knowledge.
Ridi, Pagliaccio, sul tuo amore infranto! Ridi del duol, che t'avvelena il cor!
Visit this user's website Find all posts by this user
Like Post Quote this message in a reply
19-01-2013, 06:15 PM
RE: Saoirse
Lovely. Smile

"People demand freedom of speech as a compensation for the freedom of thought which they seldom use." Soren Kierkegaard
Find all posts by this user
Like Post Quote this message in a reply
26-02-2013, 12:53 AM
RE: Saoirse
Misanthropik, the word artist. Wink

"It was life, often unsatisfying, frequently cruel, usually boring, sometimes beautiful, once in awhile exhilarating." -Stephen King
Find all posts by this user
Like Post Quote this message in a reply
26-02-2013, 01:37 AM
RE: Saoirse
(26-02-2013 12:53 AM)59pEaNUt89 Wrote:  Misanthropik, the word artist. Wink
Blush It is true. My words have been known to...well, nevermind. Tongue

Through profound pain comes profound knowledge.
Ridi, Pagliaccio, sul tuo amore infranto! Ridi del duol, che t'avvelena il cor!
Visit this user's website Find all posts by this user
Like Post Quote this message in a reply
[+] 1 user Likes Misanthropik's post
26-02-2013, 02:28 AM
RE: Saoirse
And humble as always.

"It was life, often unsatisfying, frequently cruel, usually boring, sometimes beautiful, once in awhile exhilarating." -Stephen King
Find all posts by this user
Like Post Quote this message in a reply
[+] 1 user Likes Peanut's post
26-02-2013, 03:19 AM
RE: Saoirse
(26-02-2013 02:28 AM)59pEaNUt89 Wrote:  And humble as always.
You know how I do. Drinking Beverage

Through profound pain comes profound knowledge.
Ridi, Pagliaccio, sul tuo amore infranto! Ridi del duol, che t'avvelena il cor!
Visit this user's website Find all posts by this user
Like Post Quote this message in a reply
26-02-2013, 11:44 PM
RE: Saoirse
I love the way you put pen to paper but that's just waaaaay to soppy for me!

You could write for Mills & Boon Tongue

I see you writing more like a Jackie Collins! (not soppy, more like wild Thumbsup )

Humankind Dodgy (a total misnomer)
Find all posts by this user
Like Post Quote this message in a reply
26-02-2013, 11:48 PM
RE: Saoirse
(26-02-2013 11:44 PM)aurora Wrote:  I love the way you put pen to paper but that's just waaaaay to soppy for me!

You could write for Mills & Boon Tongue

I see you writing more like a Jackie Collins! (not soppy, more like wild Thumbsup )
I'll admit; it's a rare deviation from my usual coarse language and brutal violence. Tongue I was feeling soppy that day, I guess.

Through profound pain comes profound knowledge.
Ridi, Pagliaccio, sul tuo amore infranto! Ridi del duol, che t'avvelena il cor!
Visit this user's website Find all posts by this user
Like Post Quote this message in a reply
26-02-2013, 11:56 PM
RE: Saoirse
(26-02-2013 11:48 PM)Misanthropik Wrote:  
(26-02-2013 11:44 PM)aurora Wrote:  I love the way you put pen to paper but that's just waaaaay to soppy for me!

You could write for Mills & Boon Tongue

I see you writing more like a Jackie Collins! (not soppy, more like wild Thumbsup )
I'll admit; it's a rare deviation from my usual coarse language and brutal violence. Tongue I was feeling soppy that day, I guess.
Apology accepted Tongue

Now, get on with it!

Humankind Dodgy (a total misnomer)
Find all posts by this user
Like Post Quote this message in a reply
Post Reply
Forum Jump: