Saturday, July 27, 2013

Revelations outtakes - Julie Lynn Hayes

Revelations is a story that is very dear to my heart, one that was over forty years in the making. When I first began to write, hearing Judas’ voice in my head, I had no idea what would happen, just a basic idea about their reincarnations. It didn’t take long for me to realize that Judas’ longstanding obsession was  Jesus, that he’d loved him silently for years.  I didn’t know where that would take him, if anywhere.

As the story progressed, and I realized that Jesus felt the same way about Judas but didn’t understand his feelings, being entirely innocent of such matters, I hoped they would work things out. But then the question arose—how far could I go with them?

There is a scene in the book where they consummate their love. But the scene I wrote and what you will find in the novel are not the same. My publisher and editors tore it apart (I’ll leave it there, but trust me, I was upset).

However, I decided to do something else, and thanks to M.A. for giving me the chance to do it. Here is the scene, uncut and unedited, seen here for the first time anywhere. Enjoy these outtakes!


Now the question is, where do I begin? Despite all the years I’ve spent dreaming of this moment, of being in just this very position with Jesus, I seem to have neglected to formulate any sort of a game plan for what I'll do now that I’m here. I don’t want it to be painful, but pleasurable, for both of us. Damned short-sighted of me, don't you think? I know I think so.

            But not an insurmountable problem. We've already gotten past two thousand years of lusting after one another in our hearts, just in order to be here. What else can compete with that? Seriously? Certainly not the lack of any proper sort of lube about my person. I wasn't expecting this, I admit it. I don't carry a tube of lubrication about on the off-chance I might be in the mood to have sex and might find a willing partner. But nature is known to produce her own, so we’re still very much in business, as the saying goes.

            My first thought is simply to make him comfortable with his body and mine, with our bodies together. I shift my weight so I’m not directly on top of him, but lying beside him, propped up onto one elbow. I reach for one of his hands, he gives it willingly. First I kiss each fingertip, lingeringly, my eyes locked onto his, feeling him shiver at my touch. I take one sweet finger between my lips and suckle at it gently, which elicits an unexpected moan from Jesus. An auspicious start. And to think, we've only just begun.

            "Do you want to touch me?" I ask. He nods almost shyly. I take his hand and touch it to my bare chest. The hair there is neither thick nor abundant, being rather fine and difficult to see, as light as it is, against the backdrop of my pale skin. I pass his fingers over each of my nipples, and I mirror this by touching his own duskier nubs. Women don't have the market cornered on having erotic nipples, after all, far from it, but not all men realize that fact, or utilize it. Once I see he gets the idea, I take his hand again, and show him how to lightly pinch one of my nipples, just enough to cause it to stand up and take notice. His touch feels so good. I can't help but be pleased that he’s so eager to learn. As eager as I am to teach.

            "Touch me," he murmurs, willing me to take the lead, and of course I comply. I’d do anything he asks of me, and I don't mind being first. He can always follow my lead.

            I begin with his beautiful lips, but rather than devour them, I pace myself, taking my time, showing Jesus of what use a tongue can be. He allows mine entrance, and I move inside his mouth, touching his tongue, touching the roof of his mouth, everything I can reach, encouraging him to touch me in a similar fashion. If at first he seems hesitant, he quickly grows bolder, sucking at my tongue eagerly before moving inside of my mouth, reversing our positions.

            He’s a quick study.

            When I draw back from our kiss at last, I can feel his disappointment, his body arching toward mine involuntarily, and I press a soft kiss against those slightly swollen lips. "You'll like the rest," I promise. I am rewarded with his beautiful smile—I would kill to protect that smile, I would.

            I want all of him, and I want to touch him—everywhere—and do everything that my fertile imagination can conceive of, and yet I also know we don't have time for everything. Not right now, anyway. Is it arrogance on my part that presumes there will be another time? Or is it that I know him so well I know he hasn’t entered into this lightly, there must be something in the future for us? But our time is so short, just a few days left. A very few days. Didn't I say I just knew this would be the hardest incarnation of all? Now I know why.

            I push unpleasantness aside, concentrating on this beautiful man I love so very much. Nothing else. Not now. Nothing exists besides him and I. Nothing. We’re here and now and that’s all that matters.

            I begin a trail, starting with his mouth, my fingers stroking and reassuring as I kiss and nip along his jaw line, before beginning a more southerly journey. Down along his neck, pausing at his pulse point, feeling his life with my lips. I find myself fascinated, and for a few moments I hold my position there before I begin to move once more, slow and easy, across his chest, grateful that it is a warm night, and also that there is more than enough moonlight to see this most beautiful sight.

            I can't resist kissing each nipple lightly, pulling one into my mouth, suckling at it, my actions eliciting more moans from Jesus. I've always wondered what Jesus would say when caught up in the throes of passion, surely not his own name? Now I know…the only name he utters is my own. And yes, it’s a balm to my aching soul.

            I pause long enough to look up into his eyes, the starlight reflected in their dark depths, and I see his aura is pulsing about him. I imagine my own is too, my entire being alive with this very moment.

            I resume my kissing of his beautiful body, licking and tasting his tan skin, touching him everywhere I can reach. I can feel his fingers in my hair again. His very touch is taking me far too close to the edge for comfort, and I need to find an image that will stem this treacherous tide before it releases prematurely, against my will. I have it, the very thing—Mary M naked.  A repulsive thought in and of itself that serves to bring the situation under my control once again.

            Having traversed the soft flesh of his chest, I now reach his hard cock, and yes I admit to being very proud at having the ability to induce this state in Jesus, a state that matches my own. I bury my nose in the dark nest of his curls, inhaling him as much as I can, taking in his scent—a sensuous mixture of olives and lemons with just a hint of musk, and something else that is wholly Jesus.  I’m extremely hard, and my own hardness is weeping profusely. A good thing, I know, and rather useful.

            Jesus is my first and only priority—his comfort, his needs, his pleasure, his everything.  He’s the first virgin I’ve ever been with. First and last now, actually, for I’ll never have another lover. Ever.  I don’t want to frighten him, or to displease him. And I definitely don’t want to move too quickly either, although my body has other opinions on the matter. Luckily, I’m still in control of my second brain—at least at the moment.

I kiss the tip of his cock. My eyes search his face, looking for a reaction, as I gently begin to lick around its pretty pink head.  I know he's never been touched here before, and if I had to guess, he's probably not touched himself either. Hopefully he’ll enjoy the sensations I’m about to offer him.  One look at his expression reassures me, his kiss-swollen lips are parted breathily. He seems to be very content with what we are doing, with what I’m doing to him.  So I continue.

            Slowly I take him into my mouth, resisting the urge to swallow him in one bite—he’s no mere snack, to be summarily ingested and done with—he is the crème de la crème. He is the best that could ever be. He’s been my heart's desire for as long as I can remember. This is undoubtedly every dream I've ever had come true, and I can only fervently pray he feels much the same.

            Although I’ve long dreamt of this very eventuality, I’m discovering the reality far outstrips the fantasy in every way. I’m all too aware of his hardness within my mouth, my tongue laving him with infinite tenderness and care. My fingers never cease to caress him, strumming along his inner thighs, soothing him, as well as stirring him. I can feel his vibrations, his excitement matching my own. His moans reach my ears—sounds of pure pleasure that go straight to my cock. I whisper into his hardness, murmur the words I've been waiting two millennium to speak—how much I love him, how much I’ve always loved him, and how I’d do anything for him. Anything.

            His fingers tighten their grip on my hair, and I can tell from the way his body is tensing that he’s about to come. I become more aggressive, sucking at him as I move him in and out of my mouth, as if I am fucking myself with his cock, willing him to completion.  A few more strokes are all that’s  needed, all that’s required until he reaches his climax, and all of that loveliness is spilling into my mouth, as he comes. Oh kyrie eleison, the most marvelous taste I’ve ever experienced explodes onto my taste buds, sweet nectar such as I’ve never tasted before. I swallow as quickly as I can, as his cock pumps out its load, entire body quivering with the force of his orgasm. Until he has no more to give.

            Oh my God, that was so amazing. Although maybe that’s a poor choice of words. Seeing as that's his dad and all. But holy shit doesn't seem any more apropos, no matter how accurate.

            What I need right now, more than anything, is to kiss him, to feel his lips against mine, to know that he's all right with what we're doing, and to make sure he likes it. Of course he likes it, what's not to like. I mean what I'm doing. To him. With him. Gah, I'm so inarticulate all of a sudden. I just need to make sure he's okay.

            I slide up his warm body in order to claim that kiss, but his lips are on mine before I can even say a word, and he’s taking my very breath away with the intensity of his need and I cease to question anything anymore. Everything’s perfect. Just like him.

            Our bodies are pressed tightly together now, as tightly as our lips, and all I seem capable of are guttural moans, but that's okay, he's making them too. At least we're speaking the same language, whatever that might be.

            And then he surprises me. Not by the words of love he whispers into my lips, not in the way he caresses my name with his tongue, almost like a prayer. Or even the look in his eyes that speaks volumes more than mere words ever could. No, it's not these things that surprise me, but rather it’s his hand upon my very hard unrequited cock. His touch is both gentle and confident. I might have to rethink that whole never touched himself thing, I think.

"I love you," he whispers, pumping my hardness with a purpose, and any thoughts I once possessed of doing anything else have flown from my head, to be resurrected at a later date, no pun intended. This feels too good to stop, this feels too amazing, even. And it feels too immediate.  I shatter into a million pieces with the force of my orgasm, and he picks me up, every last piece, and puts me back together again. He is perfect.

            For once I’m speechless. Anything I can think of to say falls into the category of too trite, too banal, or too stupid. Perhaps words are simply not needed.

            "Stay with me, tonight," he asks, and I cannot deny him this request. Not now, not ever.  "Please don’t leave me…" As if I ever could. I think he knows better than that. At least he should, by now.

            I offer to go get a blanket from the tent, to cover us, but at my suggestion he clings to me and simply says, "No, don't go"

            In the back of my mind, a niggling thought attempts to make itself heard, but I push it aside, intent upon preserving this moment for as long as possible. This perfect moment. This perfect fucking moment. Everything's perfect, all's right with the world, as we cuddle together in our post-coital bliss, hold one another, and bask in the glow of our newly-confessed love.


            And that's the moment, of course, when all hell breaks loose.