Touched by the Divine - Part 1

"Sluts! They're all sluts," he thought as they staggered down the cobbled alley, stones still slick with the evenings rain. Iblis cursed as his feet shuffled uselessly beneath him, the girls under either arm supporting his weight as they made their way back to his apartments. His head bobbed low between his shoulders; and he peered at one of the girls through the tangled waves of his long white hair. He'd left the brothel with these two cows, the best money could buy. Yet neither was good enough for him... nothing ever was. For Iblis al Djinn, sculptor to Kings and nobles, creator of some of the most beautiful works of art ever crafted by the hands of man, had never gazed on true beauty himself.

Oh, he'd seen it alright... seen it whenever he closed his eyes, haunted by the tantalizing vision as it danced fleetingly, maddeningly across his eyelids; only to disappear when he opened his eyes once again to the world. He'd tried all his life to give form to the vision which had driven him for as long as he could remember; yet while his work was renowned throughout the lands, decorating halls of heroes and Kings, he could never achieve in stone that which he only touched in dreams... pure, divine beauty. He longed for it, oh Gods! how he longed for it. Every creation poured from his heart, through his hands and into the chisel; carving into rock lubricated by blood and sweat. But it ever eluded him. The hint of an angle here. A hair out of place there. The arch of the neck not flowing with the curvature of a delicate cheekbone. As a student, he'd shown such potential, such desire, such passion. And while his works soon outstripped his teachers abilities, and collectors clamored for his works, he was tormented by that which he could not give form. He'd spend fevered nights, chiseling madly with fierce determination that THIS would be the one, that he would finally exorcise this demon from his mind's eye... yet the sun would rise on his work, shining dimly through the dusted windows on his work, and he would collapse, screaming and clutching his head in agony until sleep overtook him, curled in a ball among the dust and debris of another failure.

As time went on, he'd become jaded, trying to obliterate the vision with endless nights of flowing wine and willing bodies, exotic drugs and local vices. And then the sun would set, the cycle would begin anew. His sculpts reflected the change inside him; his older work being vibrant and abstract, yet his more recent: stiff and cold; the detail intoxicatingly intricate, yet devoid of life. It was these which were most in demand by royalty; still, regal poses that would mark the times of their rule to future generations.

And now, Iblis al Djinn, most famous artist of his time, staggered down a nighted alley supported by these two cows. "Hah!" The situation brought an angry laugh from his lips, and his sudden outburst elicited giggles from the girl on his right, he didn't know her name. He cursed her, which only drew giggles from the two of them, maddening him, the fire rising in his blood. One of the girls slipped her hand down his leather breeches, and more than that rose as she stroked him. Cows they might be, not deserving in his eyes the title of beauties all others would bestow on them; still, in the flesh he found release, in flesh was where he could wipe away the visions behind his eyes, focusing on the exquisite sensations of skin.

The girls had no such problems with him, however. They thought him darkly handsome, as did all the others. Standing 6'1", Iblis' lean frame cut an exotic figure. There wasn't a woman who'd seen him who hadn't been envious of the long, silken white hair which flowed down over his wide framed shoulders. His leather shirt hung open to the waist, and the other girl ran her hands over a stomach as finely chiseled as any of his sculptures. His long, angular muscles rippled smoothly over his lean frame, giving his walk the look of a panther stalking prey.

At least when he was sober.

Now he was being half carried down the street by these two cows, one running her crimson nails over the ridges of his abdominals, the other stroking him slowly, her thumb circling over and around his head. He grinned drunkenly as he felt her grip tighten on him, but then felt the hand on his stomach stop its caresses as well. He looked up blearily to see what had startled them, and saw the cloaked form as it emerged from the mists at the alley's end.

A deep hood hid her features, but there was no doubt a woman inhabited the night black folds of the cloak. She walked with the ease of an oiled serpent, her curves flowing visibly under the cloak which hid her form. All was silent but for the soft click of her heels upon the cobblestones, mesmerizing him with their beat. Her step did not falter as they stood there, the three of them hypnotized in her path. As she drew near, he caught the briefest flashes of alabaster white flesh beneath the cloak as it swirled around her, her bare midriff contrasting with the black leather bustier which held her perfectly formed breasts. All this he could see as she drew near, but still her face was hidden deep within the shadows of her hood.

The girls at his side seemed to emerge from their doe-like shock, and tugged tremblingly at his hands, urging him to the side of the path. Yet he had already dismissed the cows from his mind, and stood still as one of his creations in her path. She closed the distance and looked up to gaze full on him as she walked by, a slight smile on her ruby red lips as her body brushed his, flowing across his skin like a silken scarf in a breeze; then she passed by, into the night. Iblis stood there, heart pounding in his ears vying with her rhythmic footsteps to drown out all other noise. The beauty he had sought all his life, the beauty he feared belonged to the divine alone, had just flowed past him in the flesh like a rushing stream on the cobbled streets of Britain.