Fever: Another Story from the Maya

The Theatrium belonging to Eva Blue-Eyes is set to night time, the vast sky dark and peppered with an occasional pinprick star. Blue lava oozes down the sides of her mountainous alabaster Altarstone, turning it into a volcano of ice.

The sea of Fags all hold blue lanterns aloft, a surreal, shifting carpet of them in all directions.

“If you guys are good I’ll throw out some used tampons later,” Eva tells everyone.

She struts the stage alone. No band, no Councillors, no Mod. Just her, commanding the attention of thousands.

“Oh, and for anyone who’s new — I sell used panties and bodily fluid potions,” she says. “I have Snapchat subscriptions monthly and yearly, and I have my social media available as well. I AM available for girlfriend experiences, although there is quite a long waiting list. Oh, and tomorrow’s Trials will have a special bonus round on account of the Equinox.”

The blue lanterns are all silent. Her voice echoes over the plains that comprise her outdoor performance space. The sky is the color of ice at midnight.

“You have awesome nipples!” someone yells. A few people laugh.

“All right, you guys,” says Eva, hands on her hips. “I think it’s time we do a performance.”

The crowd likes that.

She snaps her fingers and several naked women phase onstage with her. Female Suitors, stripped of their suits and swords.

The women are secured in wooden chairs with their arms tied behind their backs and their legs spread open, revealing their vulnerable, flushed vulvas.

“These are a few of my friends,” Eva says. “Or should I say, they were my friends.”

She strolls down the row of soon-to-be victims, tapping each of them on the center of the forehead with a fingernail.

“They’ve displeased me,” says Eva. “As you may have guessed.”

“Booooo!” roars the audience.

Eva stops at the end of the line, rests her fingesr on the head of the last bound woman. She grips the woman’s hair and yanks her head up. The woman cries out.

“But that doesn’t mean I can’t please them,” she says.

“YAAAAY!” cheers the audience.

Eva bends and kisses the woman whose hair is clenched in her fist. She massages her shoulders, kissing down her neck, her shoulders, her cheeks. She nibbles on the woman’s ears, licks her earlobes.

The crowd is getting worked up. People start to strip naked, to whack off, to slide their fingers into moist hollows, to pant heavily, to moan.

Behind Eva and her victims, blue flames leap from the icy stage surface. They twist and form humanoid figures. The figures all hold jazz instruments, also made of blue flame. A phantom orchestra of blue flame.

The rhythm section, a drummer and bassist, start playing. It’s a torch song. Quiet and sexy.

The Altarstone pours its slow rivers of blue lava down its sides. The enormous audience is touching themselves and each other. An orgy is starting. The thousands in attendance are silent except for the occasional distant catcall or compliment or cry of stimulation, a constant array of wet noises, masturbation and lechery.

Eva stops kissing the girl on the end and prowls the stage, her blue eyes burning through the darkness.

The women in the chairs eye Eva nervously as she slinks about like a pale bipedal panther, touching them lightly — pinching a nipple here, tweaking a nose there, stroking a cheek, scratching a neck.

The very air throbs with the song of the blue flame band.

“This is my favorite song about fucking,” Eva says to the audience.

“YAAAY,” cheers the audience again. Songs about fucking are exactly what one comes to The Auburn Palace for.

The band flickers in place, the upright bass riff uncoiling itself like a python, slithering across the stage and out over the heads of the ravenous audience.

Eva bends and kisses the neck of bound female Suitor. Her fingers accost the woman’s upper arms as she does so, kissing up and down, smooth and rough all at once, her lips and tongue leaving no patch of skin untouched. The crowd is so respectful and spellbound the woman’s breathing can be heard several rows in. The quiet, carnal sounds of flesh moving, slick and shuffling, come from all around.

“This is for you,” Eva says, to the women or the audience it’s not clear.

A pianist of blue flame erupts from the stage and announces itself, plinking out the song’s instantly recognizable hook along the top of the slow swinging rhythm, sweaty and scintillating.

The song saunters along with Eva.

She sings.

Never know how much I love you

Never know how much I care

Eva kisses on the woman some more, and the bound woman’s heavy breasts heave up and down as Eva reaches her hand down, down, down to the space between the woman’s legs and begins touching.

When you put your arms around me

I get a fever that’s so hard to bear

She dexterously takes two fingers and spreads the woman’s vaginal lips wide, revealing the moist pink inside, which in the dim light look shadow-black.

The woman moans loudly and so does the crowd.

You give me fever

With her other hand, Eva holds up a finger. It glows red, getting hotter and hotter until it turns blue.

“My princess, have mercy…” the woman says, but Eva keeps singing.

When you kiss me

Fever when you hold me tight

As everyone watches, Eva takes her blue-hot finger and holds it against the woman’s exposed clit. The woman screams, piercing the dark above, ejecting all the energy in her body out through her throat, pain and ecstasy.

Eva sings with her cheek pressed against the woman’s. The woman thrashes against her bonds, unable to close her legs or free her arms.

Fever in the morning

Fever all through the night

The crowd Oooh’s and Aaaah’s. There are cries of “Excelsior!” and “a-LAH, a-LAH!” The first wave of orgasms are happening. Semen splats into the snow and hips quake and juices dribble down inner thighs.

The writhing woman’s vagina turns hot blue, her head lolling all about on her shoulders in a divine madness, her mouth open as wide as it can go, her breath clicking in her throat, her eyes squeezed shut and then flying open again like pulled shades. The hot blue spreads up and out through her torso and her arms and legs. Her body goes soft, loses its form, runs like paint.

Eva holds her finger against the woman’s clit until the woman is gone, singing all the while. The woman’s skin runs like wax.

She melts right there on the chair. Melts to steam.

The band plays on behind Eva. The other women sit quivering in their restraints, eyes wet and moving as they wait their turns.

Eva stands, and sets the now-empty first chair on fire with her blue finger. The chair burns the same blue as the band, as the lava on the Altarstone, and as the blue lanterns, most of which are set down on the ground now to allow free hand movement.

Sun lights up the daytime

Moon lights up the night

Eva dances to the next chair. The empty one burns, the blue flames growing higher and brighter, giving light to the first few rows of audience and their moving arms and legs and heads, a lustful hush hanging over the entire Theatrium.

I light up when you call my name

Cause you know I’m gonna treat you right

The second woman gets the same treatment — intimate, desperate kisses and petting followed by a spread vag and a blue-hot finger to the clit.

You give me fever

More high-pitched screams and more Ooh’s and Aaah’s of approval from the audience. The second woman melts down in her chair like metal in a forge, the liquid turning to steam as it hits the floor, the steam evaporating into nothing.

A few audience members raise clammy palms to their lips and whisper into them, “Fever, by Eddie Cooley and Otis Blackwell, may their voices live on.”

The orgy is relatively tame for Eva’s Theatrium. The Fags on the outside of the barrier are going at it harder, but the Suitors near the stage are all stroking themselves through their pants, and a few have taken their cocks and pussies right out, flogging and fingering them to the rhythm of the song.

Eva sings, going down the line of chairs and one by one burning her victims blue. They melt, turn to steam that smells like blueberry pie. The sounds that came from their throats as Eva puts her finger to their most sensitive bundle of nerves can’t be described as human.

Soon there are four burning chairs on the stage, tall blue pillars of flame doing their own swing-dance to the music.

The surrounding orgy is reaching its own crescendo, all participants swept up in the rhythm, whether shared or not.

Engorged dicks are touched through his pants and no one cares whose watching. All eyes are on Eva.

She stands in front of the last woman, who’s in tears, blubbering and begging uselessly for reprieve.

Eva keeps singing, her eyes full of the blue fire, her teeth and hair as white as the cold stars.

You give me fever

When you kiss me

Fever if you live and learn

Fever till you sizzle

What a lovely way to burn

The final verse. The final finger to the clit. The final melting down. The final flaming chair.

What a lovely way to burn

Eva holds up her blue finger, puts it in her mouth and sucks. The band of flames and the burning chairs gutter out behind her, as if extinguished by a great gust of wind.

“Thank you,” Eva says to the festival-sized orgy in front of her. “Thank you very much.”

Tips explode around her, silent blue fireballs. Her lips split in an approving smile. Her blue eyes sear every face they touch on.

The final round of orgasms are happening. Dicks drool out their last several pumps of semen, furious fingers flick clits and pump pussies, puddles of love liquid gathering in the shallow layer of cool snow. All eyes stare at Eva, empty-minded fish stares ogling the goddess onstage with her hands on her hips and her chin held high.

As the hands finish their tasks, cheers begin. They come from the tips of bare toes. They are grateful, ravenous, animalistic, uninhibited screaming. They all want her to see them individually. They slap their hands together over their heads, pants still down, dicks dangling and pussies glistening. They yell and yell, monkeys in a cage.

Tips explode around Eva, tips of every size. She basks in their momentary heat, and then, without another word, she’s gone, disappearing off stage in a swishing curtain of blue flame.

The tips keep coming, flash upon flash. A thousand gold. A thousand platinum. A hundred thousand platinum.

The stage is empty now but the crowd remains, loins cooling, waiting for to return and for the next show to start.

Everything is a work in progress.