Editor’s note: The following story is fiction.
So what excuse do we have for publishing fiction based on the character of Vanguard?
Sometimes, the best descriptions of what really happens is unveiled through fiction.
Just as art sometimes brings us closer to insight into what things really look like, a fictional account can reveal truth as it has never been seen. This account approximates what many women say they experienced when Vanguard brought them in for a one-on-one teaching.
Some critics will undoubtedly call the following an awful, plagiarizing mixture of tongue-in-cheek romance writers’ submissions to the Purple Prose Contest and platitudes from the New Age Bullshit Generator.
They are absolutely right.
Night of the Vanguard [Part 1]
By Rosa de le Pussy-Organista [not a real name]
Our eyes met across a crowded room at a party at Nancy’s house. He was called Vanguard, I was told, and he had been so named for his ability to lead the world to a new movement of light.
His eyes were silvery gray, the color of moonlight reflecting on storm clouds.
I experienced a churning in my belly as I felt my heart plunge to my stomach at the impact of his gaze. I watched with both trepidation and excitement as he rose from his seat. His piercing gaze never left mine, never wavered in its intensity as he approached.
I was unable to control my reaction to his devastating maleness.
“Hi, I’m Vanguard.”
My tongue felt large and swollen in my dry, heated mouth. I became dizzy, all the blood leaving my head in a mad dash to my heart and other, lower places.
“Hi, I’m Rosa.”
Aware of the multitude of stares from the other women at the party, I was tremulous and apprehensive. My heart was racing, my limbs mysteriously weak. I thanked God I was already sitting for I knew my legs were incapable of supporting me.
He said, “Let’s go for a walk.”
The weakness in my arms and legs seemed to increase. As I arose, he hugged me, pressing against me. Every muscle in my body tightened, clenching almost painfully in response to his heated flesh.
As we walked down Oregon Trail, a fine sheen broke out on his forehead and upper lip. My stomach continued churning from the near contact of his delectable body. I trembled uncontrollably. Goose bumps covered the column of my spine.
We stopped at an apartment that happened to be empty; the door was unlocked. He led to me to the couch and sat down.
“I am a tantric master and I can teach you Kamasutra,” he said. Then he touched me with marvelous ingenuity; he caressed me with his wild manhood. His beauty struck my heart, then my loins.
My thighs turned to mush.
He told me the lives of seven billion people hung in the balance. The welfare of the world depended on his teaching.
He lowered his head towards me, licking his hot, dry lips in preparation. I understood his intent and parted my lips, waiting breathlessly. Closer, his hot breath fanned my quivering lips. He could feel the stuttering, faltering beat of my heart against his own. My trembling increased, my fingers and toes tingled. My stomach roiled and sweat ran in rivulets down my forehead, burning my eyes.
“You are ruled by disintegrations. Do not let it make you a suppressive,” he said.
Vanguard brushed his lips across mine in a feather-like caress. A slow smile curved my luscious mouth. Then he pushed me back into the soft, buttery luxury of the leather couch.
[to be continued]