Tuesday Snippet and My Son’s Sight

Horse Pareidolia

Horse Pareidolia (Photo credit: CarbonNYC)

I like studying how we learn things.  Though often it seems that we don’t really understand the actual process involved until we find someone who doesn’t seem to do things the way we do.  Then the process seems obvious because it is involved in every step of how we try to make the other person conform to our expectations.

 

I was just doing my usual “spending too much time” browsing webpages, many of them at the Guardian UK’s Bad Science column when I detoured to read this piece about passion and what makes Bad Science’s Ben Goldacre the “best science writer” (which I have to say is not the case in my opinion–Goldacre writes a bit like Chuck Wendig, attitude and a little common sense  but with a focus on science

 

In Tess Shellard’s post on what makes a wonderful science writer, she mentions a few issues human beings have with our own thinking processes: aprophenia, pareidolia, and cognitive bias.

 

Pareidolia: the sensing of meaning in random objects or occurrence.  Things like seeing animals in clouds, believing that the wind is actually whispering your name, or that image of the Virgin Mary in your toast.

 

Pareidolia

Pareidolia (Photo credit: peru, lili eta marije)

I wonder, given how little my son used to “see things” in clouds (and how much time I spent sharing my impressions of these things to inspire him), if the classic two circles and a line within a circle image (that supposedly so inspires children to recognize a face) mean less than we think, but that we as parents and adults urge our children to see it until they do….  I know that for the longest time, my son did not see faces or animals in clouds.  He saw shapes, and he could count them and wanted to know and understand how they could divide and move and reshape themselves and loved seeing weather maps that directed the restructuring.  He did not see static images.  The images moved, and he saw movement and patterns…  I understand it now in hindsight as I watch his play.  I wanted for him to savor and enjoy pictures and images as I did, but movement, motion is his strength.

It’s taken me seeing something that I thought was there, but wasn’t, finding meaning in the wrong places to see this.  I wonder how much this happens.  Is it good?  Can we stop it, and would we even want to.

I think about these things.

 

And now, the part of the Unnamed Story that I’ve been hesitant about posting…  I don’t think it should cause any problems, as most of my readers are over 18, but  here is your second warning: from this point on, this post contain graphic terminology and acts between consenting adults.

 

He marveled for a moment at her, at her sexuality, at her ardency. Then he growled deep in his throat and, finding secure footing, wrapped his arms around her lower back and stood up, holding her pressed against him.

She surrendered her hold on his lips with a gasp. Her eyes widened. “‘Listii! What–“

He smiled. “Never assume that a waif like you can keep me down, Atyr. Especially certain parts of me,” he added as his grip on her slipped enough to let her drift toward his pelvis. Almost amused by the arousal she’d encouraged in him, he wondered if he might not support her by that just on tender touches and passionate kisses.

If only, he thought as he eased his hold to let her slide to her own feet before the uncomfortable downward pressure of her weight on him discouraged further thoughts of intimacy. Once she was standing in front of him, he finally finished ridding himself of his underwear and depositing it all on the stool.

She was waiting for him to make the next move, though whatever that should be he had no clue. Still, there was patient anticipation in her posture as she stood there.

He demurred answering for a moment as he regained a place on the bed. As pleasurable as he sometimes found making love while standing, they were both tired. He certainly was.

And yet he wanted another taste of the sensuality that she’d shown him. He laid down, then waggled a finger to her, signaling that she should join him.

She slunk over. “Yes?” Her voice became that nerve-wracking purr she used when she wanted something difficult, the purr that no man he’d met could ever resist.

Including him….

He couldn’t stop the sigh that escaped his lips. His gaze followed the line of her shoulder and neck, coming to rest on her beautiful face, even as his fingers touched her waist and began running up her side to the curve of her breast, then over her shoulder to her chin. Drawing her down to kiss, he whispered, “Name it, Atyr. What do you want of me? Name it. It’s yours.”

She blinked and eased back. “Mn? What do you mean by that, ‘Listii? I want nothing more than you do right now.”

He couldn’t stop the smile that pressed forth any more than the sigh. “And that would be, little Atyr?” He reached and brushed her lips with his once more. “Beautiful Mouse?”

Without waiting for her to answer, he rolled over on top of her, taking care to not tumble them both off the bed. Maybe she’d anticipated his action. She’d managed to wriggle beneath him, centering herself in the bed, and laid there, legs spread and sliding their way up the backs of his thighs.

She smiled, smiled just like an angel as she pressed her calves against his buttocks, pressed his body toward hers, pressed him into her. She smiled with complete innocence, a totally disarming expression.

He found the contradiction startling.

Grunting slightly, he somehow managed to brace himself before he fell heavily onto her. Shifting his weight, he finished the move she’d started, finishing the thrust into her, dividing that close muscular flesh with his own.

A mother of seven and she was still as firm and supple as a maiden…

He found that contradiction exciting.

For too brief a moment, she held him to her, held him so tightly he wondered if she would ever let go. She held him in such a way as if to defy the Heavens to separate them. Her legs gripped his tailbone. Her arms were locked around his chest. Her lips pressed against his own so strongly that he couldn’t move away.

And within her, the gentle pull of her, the eagerness of her body trembled against him.

He could have enjoyed it forever.

She had expectations though. He knew that she wanted to savor this moment with him so much that she forgot her fears for Val.

He wanted to forget his fears for Val—he wanted to forget he even had a brother—at least for a time.

The grip of her thighs eased just enough to allow him to raise his hips. Her body released him with a reluctance though, holding tight to his ring, his head, even holding his shaft taut from his body as he withdrew. He wasn’t sure who moaned once there was no longer the warmth of her surrounding him.

Without a thought, he thrust himself back in, forcing those tense muscles from their closeness, feeling them clamp down on him in gentle reprisal. He withdrew again and repeated his bold violation.

She grunted like an animal in time with his thrusts. Her head was turned slightly to the left so that as he leaned down his lips brushed her jaw and cheek rather than her mouth. He bit at her jaw, gently he thought, but her next voiced outburst was half gasp, half growl.

It didn’t mean a thing to him. All that matter was the two of them together and a rhythm that was timeless.

He continued nipping her neck. Her cries became shorter, sharper, shriller. He could tell she was in no way unhappy or bothered by his actions. When he stopped to lick at the bites, she paused in her reflexive flinch, uncertain. Then, twisting her head so their necks were nearly twined, she bit him.

He missed a beat in the already more subdued rhythm.

And so it continued, though not as long as he’d have liked. Not all that much longer really….

Nips were traded to lips, jaws, necks, even ears. He had a passing tinge of relief that he’d thought to take out the stud from his left lobe, though her tongue playfully attacked the hole where it had been.

She held him down to her, chest against chest. Her fingernails must have drawn a myriad scars on his back. He could feel sweat stinging in a few.

He leaned against her on his elbows and teased the hair that had fallen in her face, then tickled her ears and neck from his fingers.

And the beat went on despite the clench of her hips, the hold of her legs wrapped around him in restraint. Her body had softened to his demands. He’d felt the first quivers of her delight only moments before and knew better than to stop, when, with a startled expression, she began tensing and trying to squirm away.

For a moment. Only for a moment.

Funny how tightly she began to grip him into her when she finally surrendered to her own pleasure.

*

That’s one, she though, a lazy haze of delight coloring her thoughts as she felt her body’s release.

That’s one worth several, she thought next. She giggled.

He smiled down at her like a god. She felt a tense thrill as she tilted her head up to respond to the kiss he offered. A gift from a god….

Her lips felt sore and bruised, felt so good, pressed to his.

He murmured an “I love you, Atyr” between kisses.

Of course he did was her wry thought at that.

She could feel the way his erection was smoothing, the head thickening against his ring inside her.

She readied herself for the hotness, for the rush of his own ecstasy. Yet despite this, she gasped as his motions within her became more abrupt, harder, faster, more passionate and demanding. She forced her body to relax against his body, forced for a bare second. It was easy to relax into the moment. Even the light brush of his chest hair as they slid over her sweat laden breasts spoke ease and contentment.

Every nerve was aflame with him and she found herself surrendering to his demanding body as he took her, over and over again.

Who would even want to deny such a god?

She found herself hovering at that pinnacle she had touched so many times before. Her thoughts were less on their bodies now and more on the mutual pleasure and ecstasy between them, on life, on heaven….the Gods only knew what else.

No coherency there.

Random happy memories–maybe they were memories; somehow she suspected they’d never happened–passed though her mind. She wondered fleetingly what was taking him so long to join her, to dance on that pinnacle with her.

She reached with gentle, loving mental hands into his thoughts, feeling his love for her, his delight with her foremost.

Feeling his ultimate refusal to surrender to his desire more than he had.

 Down…

Down she fell from that pinnacle alone. Once she’d recovered from the landing, rough as it had been, she opened her eyes and looked at him. He’d already moved away from her by then and was laying at her side, touching her with gentle hands only.

In her shock she hadn’t broken the contact she’d opened. She felt his regret and apology before his gaze met hers.

“Not yet, Atyr,” he whispered, his gruff voice harsher than normal after all their activity.

She wasn’t sure why he’d said that, despite the contact between their minds. He’d learned to shield himself that well. She started to ask why.

*

He smiled playfully and sealed her lips with a fingertip covered with her own rich muskiness. “Not now, Atyr. It’s late. Sleep with me, please?” Then he kissed her again, far gentler than any caress earlier, his thoughts gently pushing away her contact with added emphasis.

~Not now, Mouse. We can talk about it later.~

She fell back to her own mind thinking of how beautiful his voice could have been given that touch.

He felt her retreating mental presence with relief…relief tinged with an emptiness he’d thought–had hoped–he’d forgotten. For a few moments there the loss of Riia, the silence that was his brother’s illness…. They had been filled with the life and beauty that was her.

It was more than he’d been prepared to handle. Even knowing what he had about her, even knowing what his brother had spoken of so many times…. Val’d often talked about this. He’d known.

He hadn’t listened.

She curled against him, resting her head against his chest just under his chin, cradled in his arm. He reached over her to punch the stuffing in the pillow until it was back under his head then slid his hand down her back. Tentative touches from fingers both mental and not probed for a reaction. He grabbed the physical fingers lightly and held them against her own hip.

The mental touches he ignored as best as he could, hoping that she’d tire of his resistance and fall asleep before he was too tired to shield her out.

Yet he wished so much that he could let her back in.

There you go…  More next week, if you still want to keep reading it.  For me, this is just good fun.  Though, if you do want me to go on, you’re going to have to decide who your favorite character is…

 

 

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3 responses to “Tuesday Snippet and My Son’s Sight

  1. Excellent post today. Thanks so much for sharing. I really enjoyed it very much.

    Enjoy writing? We would love for you to join us!

    Writers Wanted

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  2. Ah, Eden, such an interesting question: is finding meaning ever wrong or doesn’t it only depend on what we seek? Maybe it’s how we get there or when we do, realize it wasn’t the path we thought. Lucky mom, lucky son to have each other to find out.

    Great post!
    Karen

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    • I’m glad you share my curiosity about these things, Karen. Sometimes I wonder why more people don’t so it, but at least in this case, I do understand. It feels strange to be looking at my son this way, thinking of him as both himself and studying his actions in relation to myself and to the way humans have interacted with their world for so long.

      Do you think that once, long ago, there was a Neanderthal mother and child sitting on a fallen tree, staring up at the clouds and that the mother was telling her little one “Look, there goes a rabbit? And there! A mammoth!” And her child was shaking his/her head and saying “Where Mommy? I don’t see it.”

      Some questions are eternal. Not sure this one is, but…

      As for finding meaning being wrong? I don’t think so personally. I do thing one can “stop finding” and relax on a comfortable illusion of meaning that gratifies only the person but not the whole of “self”. Just my take on it.

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