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  • Titanic - Bathtub

    The blue light cascades from the dim moon outside, as Jean wanders into the lonely washroom with Yana. Sinks and mirrors, and a row of empty bathtubs, all gracefully illuminated in the unoccupied darkness.

    She has a bottle of absinthe with her, and when she undresses, sliding her bathrobes away, and her black underwear, she feels herself breathing more openly, as her nerves tremble with a perverse excitement waiting to be actualised with Jean.

    The way he undresses, it's more clumsy, but she can detect that same feeling of lust in him as his clothes bundle on the floor, by his feet.

    When they can both see each other's bareness, it is Yana who walks over to the first bathtub she sees, and slides herself into its contours — her head by the tap and faucet, leaving the bottle on the floor beside for easy reach. She makes an inviting 'come hither' gesture for him to enter too with her, where his body could rest upon hers, her heartbeats echoing through her bosom, and their warmth mutually shared in this intimate emptiness.

    He's almost as tall as she is, which makes it convenient for the both of them to squeeze together in the tub.

    And after a while, when she grows used to the whole feeling of his body — letting her hands trail all over his chest, his underarms, delicately brushing over his skin, and his steady penis and testes; her mouth pressing over his neck like a parasitic vampire's, letting her tongue dance over to his cheeks and ears and some of his lips — she allows the water to flow.

    A few drops at first, which splash upon his chest, and which she spreads all over with her fingers to send him trembling already. Then a steady stream, which pours and drips down the minute, sculpted contours of his body.

    Jean is enjoying every sensation of it. He's never known anything ever in his life before that's like this moment. A masseuse presses through his skin to relax his muscles, but Yana is pouring herself through every nook to reinvigorate those.. deepest nerves of his, that's the best he could describe it. It feels wonderful, it feels beautiful — like he's been invited back to that newborn state, where all he needs to do is just relax, and receive love with his body.

    "I'm.. I feel so--" he goes, trembling, at a loss for words.

    "Shhh. I know, don't speak.."

    He knows she is smiling a delighted smile behind his face, but he dares not turn his head, lest he shatter the delicacy of her motions — the hums of the ship's engine fading far and away from his awareness..

    The steaming water is gathering by their legs, and with hasty movements, Yana brushes by Jean to reach for the absinthe, splashing — she holds his face while she has him sip the minty elixir, and then has some for herself, an indirect kiss shared through the bottle as the liquid soothes her throat.

    Already, the absinthe's effects spread through their nerves, and it is like they are in their own private haven enveloped by pure sensation.

    And when Yana inhales and gently blows over the moistened parts of his body, he trembles as though she's really pierced through into his beating heart, and she holds him by his abdomen to steady him, as some of the water splashes out of the bathtub.

    Another kiss. His lips are incredibly fine, and she slides hers away — it's an awkward angle, but she pulls away from his mouth like a timid lover who is teasing the waters, connecting and sliding away, with a trail of saliva dripping between the brief gaps. As she does this, her hands are crawling over to his semi-flaccid penis, where her fingers grasp along his shaft, and smoothly clasps along his length, back and forth — back and forth, in a curious exploration of a man's anatomy-- engorging his penis through her touch, the waters lapping over his belly button.

    She wraps her legs over his shins, so it feels like he is haplessly caught in her embrace.
    For Jean, it is one thing to see her hands at work in sketching those images out from her endless imagination, but truly, truly another thing to see her reinterpret his whole, naked body as a form of experience. Not even when he paid those prostitutes across his travels for the pleasurable fucking, or when he found the briefest respite at the massage parlors.
    "Blue skies," Yana says, out of random impulse.
    "The vast blue skies, stretching everywhere and everywhen, and all the clouds that dab over it like cake frosting. That's what I see sometimes when I tune out from people. Where I go away to, and pretend I can fly. I've never.. never shared this with anyone, until now."
    Her fingers are locked on his shaft, and it's her thumbs which avidly rub over his tip. She knows Jean will be squirming, because it's just like when she first discovered the heights of ecstasy out of the weird, reflex-inducing, intensely stimulating sensitivity down there when she was a girl.
    "I want you to fly with me," she tells him.
    ".. alright." Jean embraces her hands with his own.
    One more sip from the absinthe, and she fully indulges herself in her act of intimate sin, Jean moaning and writhing — their bodies rubbing hard on the bathtub, splashing out more water, her pinky fingers nudging his testicles. He cannot withstand so much of this.
    "Fly.. fly away with me," she whispers. "Fly away now, ma cherie.."
    And then his spasms arrive, wave after wave of it, where his essence ruptures out, dripping down all over her fingers, where it looks like dissolving paint when it splashes into the water.
    Yana gasps at the result, all while Jean is still trying to regain his composure, his figure twitching from the orgasm in second intervals — and then, she brings her fingers to her mouth to have a taste of all her efforts.. letting her tongue dance over its salty, gelatinous form, before finally allowing her mouth to lull open so it could spill out again with her saliva.

    And in his daze, Jean could picture being carried afloat amongst the clouds..