Is This Yet Heaven?

"Is This Yet Heaven?"

There is a dingy room, small and dark, with the windows too grimy to let too much light through and the light bulb suffering the same problem. The main source of light in the room is white but uneven. A man sits before it, feverishly typing, his fingers blurring and often hitting the wrong keys, or missing altogether. He doesn't stop, though, or even slow down, or even curse the mistakes.

When he starts, nothing can stop him short of physical force. If anyone could look into that man's mind, a migraine would result. It is a-whirl with thoughts half formed and thoughts disintegrating. As he sets them down in a computer's emotionless hard disk, he will often suddenly go off on a different tack and abolish those last few paragraphs as if they were of no consequence whatsoever. Very few of his writings are legible until he has gone over them several times.

Often, in the course of drafting, he will look at his two conflicting ideas, one after the other, and decide that the first one was, after all, correct.

He is a philosopher, and likes to describe himself as the last of the classical philosophers. He has been called a madman, and he is. He has been called an untrained psychologist, but he will always call himself a philosopher. His prodigious outpourings have appeared everywhere, all over the world, and occasionally they get taken seriously

Above his desk, in the stark white glow of the computer terminal, is visible a Pirelli calendar. The October woman has Grecian features, black hair and wonderfully sensuous olive skin swelling into deliciously taut breasts. On another wall is a playboy centerfold. That and similar magazines are scattered around the room. He is a virile but frustrated man, and sex occupies a lot of his pages.

Finally, he stops. With fingers fatigued from long hours spent typing, he saves the file. He copies it to a USB key. He files the key as neatly as he can. He picks a half-smoked, suspicious looking cigar from out of a desk drawer and lights it, somehow. He inhales, and a look of bliss crosses his face.

He stands up, his legs shaking (he has not eaten for a day) and crosses over to one of the two doors leading out of the room. He puts the cigar out, puts it on a ledge beside the door. Beside the cigar are a lighter and a switch for a fan in the room. He never lets anyone into his flat, for the smell of his cigars has permeated everything and will not be removed. He has confined himself to this place and can never leave. He goes outside.

He emerges on a balcony, and it is not a happy balcony. It is his own flat, and he never has enough money to repair it. He has been forced to keep the fire escape in good condition, but that is as far as it goes.

The balcony creaks underneath him, and his exhausted, drug-fogged mind manages to tell his body to take it slowly. There are a few steps to the railing, and he has to jump (well, lurch) over an incipient hole. When he gets there he stares down dreamily at a new F360 Spider parked beneath him without recognizing it. If pressed, a few hours later, he would probably have hazarded "Fiat?"

He leans on the railing, cautiously. It once nearly gave way on him, and that would have been the first repair job he had undertaken if the builders had been brave enough to venture out onto the balcony. But the railing holds, this time, so he cautiously leans his weight on it.

There are people on balconies opposite him, people in the street below and noise rising towards him, but he is in no condition to really take it all in. He is still riding the drug euphoria, and his fingers are still trembling, not to mention the ache in his back and the pain in his myopic eyes at the brightness of the day.

He stretches against the railing to try and relieve the aching in his back, groaning at the pain in his abused, weak muscles. As he shifts, there is a small, protesting creak, but he ignores it. Someone waves to him. "Hey, Antonio! Emerged again!"

He waves back, weakly. "Yes, and the world is better for it! You illiterate fools never read my words, but you should!"

"Hey, from what my sister tell me some of your work might be worth reading!"

Laughter swells from all around, and the philosopher's face goes bright red.

/Bang/.

Steel that is rusted through is not very strong. When the last good bit snaps, it all goes. The philosopher is rather bemused, at first, as he falls downwards with sections of blue-painted steel falling with him. He doesn't even get the adrenaline shock that anyone else with a pulse would get hit by. There are gasps and shrieks and bellows from other balconies, from the street, from windows.

The Ferrari beneath him is not having a good day. After suffering the indignity of being parked in that neighborhood, it gets hit by debris from above. Steel punches holes in the windscreen and the hood. A rod, after gaining speed for four floors, hits just behind the cockpit and damages the engine.

The last of the classical philosophers personally destroys the roof, although he is in no condition to appreciate that fact.

#

He is awoken by the sound of the sea, and realizes it. His second impression is that he is lying, stark naked, on fine sand. His third impression is that his body is in a better shape even than when he raced his Ducati around the streets of Modena and made his mother berate his hot-headedness.

He opens his eyes, squinting against the glare, and /What the hell?/ is surprised to find that he doesn't actually need to squint that much, for the glare or for life-style ruining defective eyesight.

"What the hell?" He voices it, then repeats it, with a voice that has none of the dry overtones of a lifetime hash smoker.

He is surrounded by a circle of twelve of the sexiest, most elegant and desirable women he has ever seen. One of them, a brunette with Grecian features and a wonderful olive skin swelling into deliciously taut breasts, smiles at him and steps forwards.

"This is your heaven", she says, before kneeling down and kissing him passionately, her tongue darting into his mouth, her long cool fingers caressing him to hardness, her elegant dancer's legs straddling him and her palm rolling him up into her shaven lips.

He makes love to her then, on the sand and surrounded by the eleven other women. It is making love, too, not the meaningless fucking that had been all he had been getting lately. She rides him to his first orgasm, the sheer joy overwhelming his ability to last, then he pulls her down and rolls her over on the sand, remembering all the old, atrophied skills of his youth as he grinds his pelvis into her at the end of each stroke, finding it just right to rub her clitoris and driving her helpless but willing body to her own shaking, delightedly screaming climax a second before his controlled but ultimately uncontrollable shaft releases its second spurt of seed.

When they have finished, and the white hot blaze of the orgasm has receded from his mind, another takes her place, and he is ready again, hardening from a state that was not yet even soft as she slides cat-like up his body, nose and tongue and lips caressing him on the way past, firm breasts rubbing hard nipples over his thighs, pooling about his loins and squashing him between, as her lips purr at him and her teeth snap at his nipples, making his back twitch half in anticipatory fear and half in reactive pleasure. When she slid around him she kept him pinned, controlling him, now that he had spent himself once, to a mutual orgasm as they moved, sealed skin to skin from wet mouths to wet groins.

When she stands above him, there are still ten women left unsatisfied.

The third he takes control of, turning her around on hands and knees and taking her from behind, reaching one hand down to rub her clit, the other a swinging breast and its proud nipple.

"This is heaven?" The philosopher asks when all have cum and gone, in a voice that is still normal and not, as it should be, hoarse from the exertion.

The original spokeswoman answers him. "Yes. This is your heaven. Anything you might desire is on this island. You have an infinite endurance, and sexual appetite, and where you are concerned, so do we." she licks her lips and comes towards him again, sliding up his legs until she can engulf his cock in her perfect lips, swallowing it with teeth just scraping the surface, making him impossibly hard again, impossibly fast, impossibly without the pain that cumming so many times should give.

When they have finished that time, the women have all fallen asleep, and he sneaks off to explore the island. It is small, but not tiny. It is covered with fruit trees, pineapples, flax and palms. The island rises to a volcano in the centre, with trees right up to it. He sets out up it, jogging gently and, to his surprise, doesn't lose pace right up to the top. The centre is a lake of clear, fresh water, 20 metres across, perfectly transparent and tending towards blue in the centre where it goes down too deep to see. He dives in, luxuriating in the feel of water on his skin, and swims down. His lungs must be at least double their old capacity. When he gets to the surface again all thoughts of sex have left his mind, and he is luxuriating in the water. The women haven't turned up, and he is quite happy to keep it that way for the while. Plenty of time later, he thinks with the cool water swirling bewitchingly about his flaccid genitals.

#

It is bounteous, and beautiful. If they desire food they need only reach up and pick it. The weather stays perfect, the women stay luscious. The days are filled with wonderful sex, or roaming the island, swimming, running, never growing bored with these fantastic women and their almost unending imaginations and faultless talents. At first, he would ask them about the place, if this heaven was distinct from others, if they had ever lived themselves. But every time he would, the woman he was talking to would smile at him and spread her legs, and in time he would forget all about it.

He would get bored with sex, but only for as long as it took him to stretch his other legs, or eat. He appeared to need no sustenance, but he liked to exercise his teeth and fill his mouth and taste the perfect fruits.

Every night, he would fall asleep in the arms of two of the women, dropping into a deep, satisfying sleep after screwing one of them senseless, by preference on top and from behind, slamming into her so that she would slide away across the sand, her explosive groans of lust even louder than the slap of skin on skin. His nights were filled with sensual dreams, and being surrounded by so much female flesh turned him into a very sensual person, who could get joy out of the slow caress of his hand down someone's arm.

After ten years, he once again thought of how much these women knew about this heaven. One day he tried swimming out from the island, luxuriating in the water. But he didn't get far. Even though he could swim perfectly and had no problem with drowning, his body craved sex and he would turn around, helpless, his hard rod dragging in the water, driving him mad until he could get to shore and grab the first available woman and fuck her hard there on the beach, as the others clustered around to wait their turn.

In time he came to look upon it as a form of hell. He had everything he could desire, he was never unhappy or bored, he knew nothing, but so what? Yet in the rare moments that he could think clearly, he missed the intellectual excitement of his life, and wondered if even this could pale, after eternity.

He raised the prospect of building a raft and sailing away, taking the women with him. Suddenly, a cloud entered heaven. The women said that they could not leave the island, for they would die.

"How can you die, if this is the afterlife?" He asked.

"We cease to exist," they said.

One day not long after, he realised that he had never been hurt, nor had any of the women. He picked up a flint knife that they used for cutting fruit, and plunged it into his arm. It hurt agonizingly, but there was no blood. Disbelieving, he plunged the knife into his chest.

The world twisted.

He woke up in a Greek villa, with glorious scents in the air and maidens wearing scant robes around him. "This is your real heaven!" One of them said, Grecian with black hair and wonderfully sensuous olive skin swelling into deliciously taut breasts, and then bent down to kiss him, her hand closing already over his groin. Very deliberately, despite his arousal, he pushed her away, found a bronze knife, and plunged it into his neck.

The world twisted.

He woke up in a sixties-style night-club, with bottles along the back wall, cushions strewn all over the floor, an almost forgotten herbal-sweet scent in the air, and twelve utterly desirable women in halter tops and minis standing around him. This time, he doesn't even give them a chance to say anything. He gets up, finds a bottle, smashes it on the bar and slams the end into his chest.

This time he wakes up fully clothed, lying back on a comfortable lounge in an elegant and neat house. He is immediately struck by how imperfect the house is. It wasn't a heaven, it was just a house in a nice place, well built and furnished. There were also no women. Just a man in a white suit and holding a glass full of clear, colorless liquid reclining in an expansive leather armchair.

"You have a very good mind," the man says. "You worked it out." The man goes on to tell the philosopher that, yes, the heavens were heavens, and yes they were created by the imagination of the philosopher. But, once breaking free of the heavens deliberately, he was raised to a new level of being. Very few people do that.

The man says; "So far as we know, this is the highest level of existence, and here there are no rules but those which you create. You can create your own worlds. I will leave you to figure out how. You can have this one of mine to start you off. You can travel to other people's worlds, if you like, and meet them. The names are on the pad beside you. We take it in turns to welcome newcomers to this life, and your turn will come around soon. Good-bye!"

The man disappears, leaving the philosopher astonished. He looks at his hand and imagines it holding a tumbler of finest brandy. Then his fingers have to clench abruptly to stop it falling through, and he raises it to his lips and tastes, closing his eyes and smiling broadly as the golden liquid runs burning down his throat. Better than any he has ever tasted before. But then it would be, wouldn't it? This is heaven!

Smiling, a Grecian girl with dark black hair and wonderfully sensuous olive skin swelling into deliciously taut breasts refills the tumbler and then steps back to await his next desire.