She likes sitting in the sunshine, meditating in the gentle morning breeze. She likes retreating into the stillness, likes lying on the quiet shore; likes knowing that the waves will bring an ebony cat (as they always do, eventually; as they have for countless days now).
She likes hearing the pad of silent little cat feet, likes feeling the stare of gleaming little cat eyes. She likes the feel of the ebony fur underneath her hands (though she infinitely prefers the feel of caramel skin, can feel it even now, in the stillness, the waves beginning to shift restlessly against her suddenly unquiet shore). She lets the waves settle with a sigh, knowing that the gleaming eyes are watching, knowing that the feral form will exploit this weakness. The shore is her sanctuary, but it also keeps her and the ebony cat safe.
When she leaves the stillness, she opens her eyes and smiles. The cat is there waiting, impatience in its golden eyes.
It jumps into her waiting arms, rubs itself against her neck and cheek. It is these displays of unguarded feline affection, even more than the caramel caresses, that tell her she is loved. She strokes the ebony fur, scratches behind the ebony ears - and is rewarded by a stinging flash of sharp white teeth. It is this display of wanton feline cruelty, even more than the human invitations, that tell her she is desired.
She gazes hypnotized at the goddess, the harmonica's music dying on her lips. No matter how many times she has seen that nakedness, has tasted it and possessed it, it never fails to stun her, never fails to bludgeon her senses into submission. It reminds her - and it warns her - of how easy it is to worship, how easy it is to abandon the quiet shore and plunge into the drowning waters.
But she stays on the shore, and remains the shore, partly because of her strength (the strength her goddess loves) and partly because of her goddess' weakness (the weakness she eventually loved). She knows she can bring the goddess to her knees; has taken the goddess on her knees (and other ways besides). Right now the goddess kneels above her, a purring chuckle on her sensuous lips. She smiles and raises her head, wanting the taste of caramel skin. She knows she will lose herself eventually (as she always does, as she has for countless days now); knows that the waters will rise and drown her in caramel-colored waves, until the shore disappears, and until another kind of stillness is born.
Hours later, as the waves recede, as warm caramel hands stroke trembling ivory skin, delicate arms cling to a goddess's neck and a throaty chuckle is heard. My poor, swamped little bee...She feels the goddess shift, feels the graze across an ivory shoulder. What was that for? Trusting, puzzled blue eyes look at amused, possessive golden ones. It's the mark of a cat's claw. The mark that shows you're mine. She smiles and nuzzles the caramel neck. You don't need to leave a sign. It's already obvious that I'm yours. She nestles deeper into the goddess's embrace, and all around them gentle waves surround the quiet shore.