The Last Amanuensis is much less explicit than most of Lisabet’s writing. It’s a dystopic science fiction tale with an ambiguous ending. Very intense, emotionally.
Poetry is like blood – you can’t hold it back.
The Emperor has decreed that Reason will rule in his lands. Art and literature are banned in favor of military technology. The fearsome Preceptors prowl the capitol, arresting anyone who dares, even secretly, to engage in forbidden activities.
A former teacher and frustrated writer, Adele is grateful for her job as secretary to the enigmatic Professor. During the day, she transcribes his learned treatises on a vast range of topics. Then he calls her to his room one night, to give her a more difficult and intimate assignment, one that risks both their lives.
“Finished, sir.” I don’t need to tell him this, of course. After all the nights we’ve spent together, he can read me at least as clearly as I do him. Indeed, I suspect he knew long before I did who I was and what I was capable of doing.
“Thank you, Adele.” With practiced care, he rolls to his side and favors me with one of his rare smiles. I notice he’s half erect and a wave of heat shimmers through me, tightening my nipples and moistening my sex.
I remember my curiosity that first time. In fact, his penis is one of the only areas that remains undecorated. Pale, pure, it stirs in the sparse nest of gray hair at his groin. Saliva gathers in my mouth. My hunger has only grown over the months that I’ve served as his amanuensis—hunger for his verse-inscribed body, his dazzling intellect, his courageous and sensitive soul.
“I am deeply in debt to you,” he continues, apparently oblivious to my arousal. “Would you do one more thing for me?”
“Gladly.” I don’t demur for an instant. I’ll do whatever he asks.
“In the chifferobe, on the top shelf, you’ll find a wooden box. Bring it here, if you please. Then get the key, which is under the clock on the mantel.”
I don’t know what to expect from the box. Certainly not the pouch of gold coins he removes and drops into my palm. “For your loyalty and dedication,” he tells me. “Use this to escape. Leave the Empire. Find somewhere you can write those stories you dream.”
“But, sir, I don’t want to leave you…” Sudden dizziness seizes me. I slump down on the bed beside him, paralyzed by sorrow and need.
“Tonight’s poem was the last, Adele. As of tomorrow, your services will no longer required.”
“No—please—don’t send me away…” I seize his illuminated thigh, making new marks with my fingernails. Only when I see the pain in his eyes do I release my grip. I know that the bloody crescents I’ve carved are not responsible for his distress. “I need you, sir. I can’t live without you.”
“Nonsense! You’re young, strong, full of life. You have a bright future, if you can manage to get out of this hellish country. As for me, my last days are ticking away. And I have accomplished what I set out to do—with your help, my dear.”
He reaches out to brush my cheek with his fingers—only the second or third time he has ever deliberately touched me—and I dissolve into tears. I fling my arms around his neck, mashing my breasts against his tattooed chest, and flatten him to the bed. He gasps as the mattress presses against tonight’s work, but for once I ignore his pain. In an instant I’m straddling him, fighting to remove my voluminous nightdress and bare my own skin to his gaze.
“Adele…get hold of yourself!” he admonishes in his most professorial tones. Still, he does not resist as I grasp his cock and stroke him to full hardness. I take him into me, swaddling him in my wet heat. His eyes grow wide as I clench around his surprising bulk and ride him as I’ve dreamed of doing for so many months—since that first night, really, when he trusted me with his secrets.
From my elementary school years, when I devoured everything I could find by Asimov, Heinlein and Bradbury, I’ve been drawn to speculative fiction. Now that I’m an author myself, I create my own futurescapes. My visions are sometimes bleak —but always illumined by desire.
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