Read Online Story of Us trilogy 01: TouchStone for Play by Sydney Jamesson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sydney Jamesson
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props himself up against the
bedroom door. “Tell me about it.”
“Alright. Fairy tales are like portals into another
world, another reality…”
“… Escapism?”
“Yes, for some, but they’re part of our oral
traditions, a shared consciousness, a way of connecting the imaginations of
living people.”
“I didn’t know that.” I really think he’s listening.
“… I’m sure it all sounds very juvenile to you, but these
kind of stories go back centuries … they’re full of real emotions and they have
a distinct symbolic and metaphoric language. People used to understand that
language but these days, all we get is the Disney version.”
“You’re passionate about this aren’t you?” He scrapes
back a stray tendril of hair from my face and so gentle is his touch, I think I
may have imagined it.
“I always have been, since I was little …” That memory
makes me smile.
“Some things stay with us, even as we grow older and
mature,” he says with total authority. He reaches out suddenly, grasps my hand
and twirls me around, winding me into the carpet like a tight, little
corkscrew.
I stumble into him, quickly regain my balance and
point at the bed. Feeling so nervous I fall back on an outdated cliché. “And
this is where the magic happens ..."
He throws me a look I can’t quite decipher, or perhaps
it’s better I don’t.
"Please ..." He walks off into the kitchen
but I can tell, just from the angle of his head, he’s smiling. Stifling laughter,
he calls out, "Can we have some wine before the magic happens?"
Oh please God yes, lots of wine.
He turns his nose up at the inferior wine and hands me
a glass of everyday Shiraz. "You look like you could do with a couple of
glasses of this stuff." He’s not wrong. "Maybe then you’ll calm the
fuck down."
He’s trying to be firm but his mouth is soft and his
irises are sparkling a kind of teal green. In spite of his assertions, he’s
relaxed and taking great delight in watching me squirm . I ask myself. In
what universe does a man like this become submissive?
Dismissing my unease, I sense my cue. "I don’t
think you should be talking to me like that Mr. Stone, after all I’m the one in
charge remember?" I feel more confident now. I’m finding my feet, or it
might be the half glass of wine I’ve gulped down. "You shouldn’t be so
rude or I may have to punish you." I hear the words, but I’m not sure
where they’re coming from.
I’m about to laugh when I realise I have his undivided
attention. He looks crestfallen and I want to go to him, to say ‘I’m only
teasing,’ but his body language has altered. He’s less authoritative somehow,
less intimidating. His head is bowed and his free hand is hanging limply by his
side. I stroll over to him and place down my glass on the counter, I take his
and settle it down next to mine.
I summon up a firm voice from somewhere. "I don’t
like it when you’re rude to me Ayden." And before I can finish my sentence
he says softy…
"I’m sorry Elizabeth." His eyes don’t leave
the floor.
My hand rests against my mouth, concealing my horror:
what have I done? He’s like a small child who’s been scolded, caught cheating
in an exam, broken a window …
I don’t know what to do, what should I do?
Here and now I decide to do the one thing I wanted to
do from the very moment I saw him at the top of the stairs in the auditorium,
that moment when our eyes met and our hands were welded together: to take him
to bed. But this is not the time for seduction, it’s about something else. It’s
about me making him feel safe and cared for, I think. I lift his face to mine,
gaze into those khaki pools of light and take his hand. "Come with me
Ayden, we’re going to bed.”
I turn on the bedside light and watch how it catches
his cheek bones, I’m dazzled by his innate beauty, there’s no air brushing
here. I stroke his shoulders and push off his jacket, feeling a kind of
reverence for him as an air
bedroom door. “Tell me about it.”
“Alright. Fairy tales are like portals into another
world, another reality…”
“… Escapism?”
“Yes, for some, but they’re part of our oral
traditions, a shared consciousness, a way of connecting the imaginations of
living people.”
“I didn’t know that.” I really think he’s listening.
“… I’m sure it all sounds very juvenile to you, but these
kind of stories go back centuries … they’re full of real emotions and they have
a distinct symbolic and metaphoric language. People used to understand that
language but these days, all we get is the Disney version.”
“You’re passionate about this aren’t you?” He scrapes
back a stray tendril of hair from my face and so gentle is his touch, I think I
may have imagined it.
“I always have been, since I was little …” That memory
makes me smile.
“Some things stay with us, even as we grow older and
mature,” he says with total authority. He reaches out suddenly, grasps my hand
and twirls me around, winding me into the carpet like a tight, little
corkscrew.
I stumble into him, quickly regain my balance and
point at the bed. Feeling so nervous I fall back on an outdated cliché. “And
this is where the magic happens ..."
He throws me a look I can’t quite decipher, or perhaps
it’s better I don’t.
"Please ..." He walks off into the kitchen
but I can tell, just from the angle of his head, he’s smiling. Stifling laughter,
he calls out, "Can we have some wine before the magic happens?"
Oh please God yes, lots of wine.
He turns his nose up at the inferior wine and hands me
a glass of everyday Shiraz. "You look like you could do with a couple of
glasses of this stuff." He’s not wrong. "Maybe then you’ll calm the
fuck down."
He’s trying to be firm but his mouth is soft and his
irises are sparkling a kind of teal green. In spite of his assertions, he’s
relaxed and taking great delight in watching me squirm . I ask myself. In
what universe does a man like this become submissive?
Dismissing my unease, I sense my cue. "I don’t
think you should be talking to me like that Mr. Stone, after all I’m the one in
charge remember?" I feel more confident now. I’m finding my feet, or it
might be the half glass of wine I’ve gulped down. "You shouldn’t be so
rude or I may have to punish you." I hear the words, but I’m not sure
where they’re coming from.
I’m about to laugh when I realise I have his undivided
attention. He looks crestfallen and I want to go to him, to say ‘I’m only
teasing,’ but his body language has altered. He’s less authoritative somehow,
less intimidating. His head is bowed and his free hand is hanging limply by his
side. I stroll over to him and place down my glass on the counter, I take his
and settle it down next to mine.
I summon up a firm voice from somewhere. "I don’t
like it when you’re rude to me Ayden." And before I can finish my sentence
he says softy…
"I’m sorry Elizabeth." His eyes don’t leave
the floor.
My hand rests against my mouth, concealing my horror:
what have I done? He’s like a small child who’s been scolded, caught cheating
in an exam, broken a window …
I don’t know what to do, what should I do?
Here and now I decide to do the one thing I wanted to
do from the very moment I saw him at the top of the stairs in the auditorium,
that moment when our eyes met and our hands were welded together: to take him
to bed. But this is not the time for seduction, it’s about something else. It’s
about me making him feel safe and cared for, I think. I lift his face to mine,
gaze into those khaki pools of light and take his hand. "Come with me
Ayden, we’re going to bed.”
I turn on the bedside light and watch how it catches
his cheek bones, I’m dazzled by his innate beauty, there’s no air brushing
here. I stroke his shoulders and push off his jacket, feeling a kind of
reverence for him as an air
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