Astrid the Maid stared at the black haired man before her. All about them, the air burned with the cold but she felt it not. Trees groaned and soon began to burst from the sudden cold that froze their sap solid. Where she would have jumped at the loud rapport of the trees exploding, the grip of the man who claimed her was far too strong to be penetrated by mere sound. His dark eyes swam with darker thoughts as he smiled.
"Look about you," he said, his voice rich with amusement. Astrid tore her eyes away from the man that fascinated her and looked about them. At first, it did not make sense. People literally frozen in midmotion stood about them. Some had expressions of horror on their faces and others wore looks of terror. Those who had attempted to flee tottered on the edge of motion.
The black haired man walked towards the nearest of the frozen forms. He gave it a push and the item tipped to the side before crashing to the ground and shattering on impact. Astrid shook off some of the spell's effects to gasp in horror. He who had defeated her kicked at the shards at his feet. His lips twisted into a rich, sensual smile as Astrid shivered. Bone gnawing cold pressed insistently against her awareness and she stooped to pick up the sword at her feet.
"Yes," he purred, "Come fight me, Maid." Astrid lifted the weapon and suddenly gasped. Somehow, she felt his hands passing over her body though they were beyond arms reach from each other. A ghostly hand moved over her stomach and up to cup her left breast. Those phantom hands felt warm and had the weight of an actual touch. Astrid shook herself, looking back to find only more frozen corpses in gruesome death masks of terror.
Astrid bared her teeth and charged forward even as one of the phantom hands danced lightly over her right shoulder. Distracted by his magic, Astrid's blow went wild and struck another frozen form. The body shattered with the force of her blow as she stumbled forward. Astrid lifted up her weapon again and placed her feet firmly beneath herself. A ghostly hand moved up her right leg.
That spectral touch teased the bruise left on the inside of her thigh from his love bites the night before. That incredibly faint touch sent a thrill of pleasure through her. Astrid struggled to maintain her focus but the magic rolled over her like fog. She felt his touch everywhere. A caress across her cheek. His nails dragged slowly down her spine. Clever fingertips relentlessly twisting and teasing her clit.
With a gasp, the blade slipped from her hand as she moved to wrap her arms protectively about herself. She dropped to her knees, shuddering as she felt her body fill with the liquid heat of desire. Astrid desperately tried to think of something, anything else. She closed her eyes and bowed her head, bending down until her forehead touched the rock hard frozen ground. She could hear him walking towards her.
A part of her thrilled with joy that he was drawing closer even as she struggled with the urge to weep with despair and fear. Unholy amusement sounded in his chuckle as he walked about her. Astrid shuddered as the phantom hands caressed and teased her body mercilessly. "Such will," he said, his voice stoking the fires of desire within her. He came to a stop before her. He crouched down and set his jaw in the palm of his left hand, his elbow resting on his knee.
Astrid opened her eyes and lifted her head. Dread and terror warred with lust in her blue eyes. He reached forward with his right hand. Astrid cringed away from him. His smile was a beautiful expression of tenderness and delight. As his fingertips settled on her cheek, Astrid gave a keening cry. Pure pleasure rolled through her senses at that touch. Pleasure that burned away nearly everything except the terror.
Despite her terror, Astrid leaned forward towards that touch. His hand opened and settled against her cheek. Astrid shuddered and nuzzled his palm even as she inwardly screamed for it all to stop. Her mind clamored against the actions her body took, but she was powerless to stop herself as she unwound her arms from about herself and reached for him.
Thursday, December 26, 2013
Friday, December 13, 2013
This is a little different from what I have been posting up here. I'm actually writing a bit of a story here. Next portion will be up next week. I'll try to have a racy scene up at some point over the next few days. If you're curious about the world that this little story is taking place, read my book The Dragon's Daughter or my other blog.
They faced each other with weapons drawn. The man was taller then the woman and he seemed to have the advantages that went with being bigger. As some of their people leaned against the split rail fence around the sparring area, the woman sized her opponent. Green eyes narrowed as they looked over his lean body. Astrid knew that body as well as the back of her hand.
Just the night before, they had tumbled into bed and made love as though it were the last thing they'd do in life. Now, he stood before her with his long knife at the ready and his black hair falling into his hazel eyes. A wicked smirk curved his lips. It was clear that he had taken her rejection of his offer of marriage seriously.
“You can walk away,” she said. That smile turned into a grin as he leaned towards her. That grin unsettled her but she kept her expression dour as to not betray the way her heart lept at it. He took a step to the right, keeping his hot gaze on her.
“You can say yes,” he retorted. She ground her teeth. Astrid's rising temper washed away all thoughts of how pleasantly his mouth felt on her skin. The tall woman had sworn to marry none. When her father scorned her, she amended it to only one who defeated her. The wiry strength that she had inherited from Erik Shieldbreaker and the ruthlessness that she demonstrated had defeated many suitors.
At first, her would be husbands scoffed. Some thought to be 'merciful' and held back their blows. What ever weapons they used, she bested them. Some she had wrestled and choked into unconsciousness. Astrid the Maid was a terror on the battlefield and her suitors learned this to their embarrassment. Then came the dark haired man from out of the north.
He did not try to flatter her. When he chose to attempt to court her, he did not bring her gifts of finery or promise sweet words. Instead, he gave gifts of weapons and spoke of his travels and battles. Astrid, despite her efforts to remain cool, found herself intrigued by this man who spoke to her of bloody things. When the riders came out of the west, Astrid found him to be a worthy shieldmate.
In the drunken revelry following that bloody victory, Astrid took him into her bed. Now, almost a month later, he had tired of her refusals to wed him. Astrid was angry. He had counted on that anger to muddy her wits.
As he moved about her, his long knife glinting, she carefully turned, keeping him before her. She spat out her answer in a tone that would have made it an insult, if he wasn't so amused by the situation. “Make me,” she snarled.
“As you wish,” he said before moving. He seemed to flow like water. Astrid scrambled aside, the tip of the knife barely missing her right arm. They were to fight to first blood. As the experienced warriors danced about each other, people watching began to place bets. He made his second attempt and Astrid batted his arm away. She moved to strike with her own knife but he had slipped out of reach.
His third attack was different. His knife was held out to the side and his forearm struck her across the neck. Astrid's eyes widened as she gasped for air and fell back from the force of the blow. Before she could respond to striking the ground, he was upon her. His knees trapped her arms out beside her. He brought the knife down and delicately cut her lower lip.
Astrid stared up at him with hatred in her eyes. At first the people watching them argued amidst themselves if he had actually cut her. As he stood, Astrid moved quickly to attack him, blood dripping down her chin. The man who had defeated her by surprise moved far faster then any of them had expected.
He dropped down to his knee and wrapped an arm about Astrid's neck. He held her hard against his chest, his face a breath away from her ear. Quietly, he said in her ear, “Fight me and you'll find far more favor then any other who has come into my bed.” Astrid's eyes narrowed, his words cutting through her anger by their pure strangeness. He abruptly let go of her and she twisted before him.
Her knife flashed but met empty air. Her fiancee stood behind her, reaching a hand towards her in an apparent offer to pull her to her feet. Astrid made her way to her feet and glared at him. She wiped the blood off her chin with the back of her hand. The man before her arched his left eyebrow slightly in a silent question.
Astrid brought her knife up and threw it. It flipped end over end, striking her lover in the shoulder. Where any other would have screamed at the injury, he laughed. Fear snaked into the Maid's heart as he pulled the knife from his wound and held it out to her. Where the others could not see it, Astrid watched as his wound knit closed. She blindly reached back as she moved to the edge of the sparring grounds.
He slowly stepped towards her. Astrid shouted for a sword. One of the gathered dashed off for the weapon as Astrid's black haired fiancee approached her with a suggestive smile. “Come, take the knife,” he said. It became apparent to the onlookers that something about this strange man was inhuman when they realized that he did not bleed or seem to suffer from his earlier injury. An anxious hand pressed the hilt of a weapon into Astrid's grip.
As soon as her fiancee came into reach, Astrid swung her sword hard. Steel met steel and the black haired man laughed. Astrid rained blows down upon him, keeping him back by force of blows. They disengaged and he grinned with approval. “You fight as well as you fuck,” he laughed. Astrid glowered at him.
“What are you?” Astrid demanded.
He stepped towards her and the air grew colder. Astrid's breath frosted in the air as he approached. He reached forward and set a fingertip against the tip of the sword. The blue steel's sheen began to dull as ice collected on the metal. The cold burned down the blade and into the hilt, making Astrid drop the weapon with a gasp.
He stepped forward and dropped the knives that he held. As the metal hit the ground that was frozen beneath his feet, it shattered. “Your husband,” he answered before reaching forward and placing a hand against Astrid's cheek. The air about her grew terribly, terribly cold. His touch, paradoxically, seemed to burn her skin. Brilliant heat seemed to throb beneath his skin. As Astrid began to shiver with that unnatural cold, the man before her's smile turned tender.
“I have watched you for a very long time, Maid,” he said as hoarfrost crept out from where they stood and the people around them made signs against evil and backed away. “I have burned for you,” he continued, wrapping an arm about her. As that terrible cold settled around her like some kind of strange phantom cloak, his body warmed her. Astrid shuddered with cold.
He dipped his head and set his mouth over hers. Slowly, he kissed her. That heat that burned in him poured through his mouth and down her throat like wine. It pooled in her chest and then began to spread through her limbs. As they kissed, Astrid's golden hair darkened. Slowly it faded from the color of honey to that of old straw and then to the shades of dead leaves. Finally, it turned a deep almost blue black color.
Astrid found herself consumed by that warmth he kindled in her veins. Hunger burned through her and she ached to feel his body against hers again. He broke the kiss and smiled down at her. Astrid the Maid and her inhuman spouse stood in the center of what seemed frozen statuary. The entire encampment had frozen. People and beasts froze solid where they stood. Fires were extinguished by the pure cold that radiated out from them.
Astrid, however, didn't care. All she wanted was the taste of his kiss and the feel of his skin.
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
“I don't know what to write,” I muttered, pushing my chair back away from the desk. “Anything I put on paper is going to be crap anyways,” I added with a snarl as I made an exasperated gesture at the computer. The woman with the honey blond hair sitting on my couch arched an eyebrow. She looked over to her brother, who leaned against the doorjamb and looked solemnly at me.
“It's late,” he rumbled, “Why don't you go to bed?” I looked over at him, restraining the urge to give him my best glare. His sober expression brightened at my scowl. As my frustration shone with greater clarity on my face, he laughed. His sister rolled her eyes at the two of us and sighed. “Go,” he said with a bright smile, “Go on. You need your rest. You can write tomorrow.”
I fixed the computer screen with that glare I had been contemplating when his sister said lightly, “Even authors need their sleep. Especially when they're stuck on something.” I groaned, feeling like I was a terrible hostess. At the same time, the twins were right. It was late and I did need my sleep. “Go, we'll mind the rest of this stuff. It's not like you need to be up all night,” she said breezily, “After all, it's not your job to entertain us. And my brother and I have a few things to talk about. Get some rest. We'll mind this business.” I sighed and conceded defeat to her logic.
Several hours later, I woke to find my vision obscured by a tangled web of golden hair. To my left, he lay with an arm wrapped around my waist. To my right, she was curled on her side, her body close to mine. Their hair lay tossed over my face like some kind of silken veil, as though dainty fairies had draped each strand with the greatest of care. I was starting to think about getting up when his arm about my waist tightened slightly.
His sleep roughened voice murmured in my ear, “Warm. Stay here.” His sister said nothing but snuggled closer to me. I reached blindly for the blanket when his hand and mine touch. I felt something like an electric thrill race up my arm from that contact. I could feel him smile. He sat up slightly and pulled the blanket and the small pile of furs up over the three of us.
Within that nest of warmth, I realized that I felt entirely safe and at peace. It was a realization that surprised me. I rolled over to face him. Long strands of hair fell between us. He smiled at me in the whisper of shadow cast by his hair. It was a lover's smile. Not a lustful one but one of deep sweetness and affection.
I blushed and suddenly looked away from his face. His callused right hand lightly cupped my cheek and resisted my effort to look away from him. At that slight assertion of control, I looked to his eyes. Eyes the color of green grass seemed to glow as I looked deeply into them. “Just be,” he said softly.
Carefully, he gathered me closer. His face a breath away from mine, I realized that I had no choice but to look at him or close my eyes. Panic whirled up like a bird beating against a cage. “Shhh,” he soothed, placing his fingertips over my lips. My heart hammered and my mouth went dry.
“Shut up and kiss her,” his sister grumbled, pulling a greater share of the blanket over herself.
My eyes widened as he smiled. His hand moved away from my face and the urge to flee lashed at me. At the same time, that terrible sweetness in his eyes held me pinned in place. Gently, he brushed the hair out of our faces. I stared at him helpless and horrified and hopeful all at the same time. He rolled forward.
His body settled against mine, pressing me down into the mattress. I gave a startled squeak and he chuckled softly. “Little mouse,” he said, his tone both teasing and endearing. As his mouth closed over mine, I closed my eyes and shivered. Slowly, I melted into that kiss, my mouth opening slightly to sigh.
Tenderly, his tongue moved over the inside of my lower lip and slid against mine in an intimate caress. His hands moved, seemingly of their own accord to hold my face between their warmth. Somehow, my hands found their way to the thicket of hair over his heart. Fingertips nestled in those wheat gold curls, I could feel his body heat like pure summer sunlight against my skin and the steady throb of his heartbeat beneath his. Dizzy and confused by the mixture of delight and desire that rose up within me, I did nothing but shiver and sigh. He laughed softly, breaking the kiss to bury his face against the hollow of my throat.
Holding me tightly against himself, I heard him whisper against my skin, “Soon.” I felt as though the world swam with beauty and that I was captured by a sunbeam. Even as a part of my yearned to tumble into that riot of pure delight, I trembled. Fear had snaked its way into my heart.
He gave a pained groan. “I will free you from its grasp,” he vowed quietly, “I will find away and you will laugh again.” I closed my eyes and did my best to push the fear that all of this was little more then a dream aside. He kissed me again. There was a desperate hunger in that hard kiss and a promise that more was waiting for when I was ready.
Confused and ashamed of my resurgent fears, I closed my eyes and wept. He rolled to his back and set my head against his chest. I listened to the reassuring pulse of his heart even as his sister wrapped herself about us and drew the covers close, knowing that I needed warmth to ease the terror of past trauma out of me. As he held me, he whispered, “Soon.”
Thursday, October 31, 2013
Author's note: I feel like I should apologize for this. The whole scene just came together poorly, in my opinion. I'll try to come up with something better next week.
Mercilessly, he ran his fingertips lightly over each ticklish spot on my foot. Determined not to laugh, I forced myself to breathe slowly. Noting my resistance, he arched an eyebrow. He pressed his nails against the curve of my instep and slowly dragged them down the length of my foot. I bit my lips together. He let go of my foot with a small noise of annoyance.
“Not even a smile,” he mused, “This is serious.” I glared at him in exasperation. He plucked the blanket off me and motioned towards the stairs. “We need to get you to bed right away,” he said, doing his best to look solemn. The mischievous twinkle in his eye shattered his attempted propriety. Deciding to humor him, I rose and made my way across the room. I started up the stairs when he suddenly swept me off my feet and into his arms.
“I can walk up the stairs just fine,” I groused.
“Nope,” he said in mock seriousness, “You might fall and hurt yourself. You are very frail.” I rolled my eyes and sighed. “Even now, you sound exhausted,” he continued, carrying me up the stairs with ease. He carefully navigated the turn in the hallway and made it to our room. Setting me down upon the bed with great care, he said firmly, “You should rest.”
“I'll just lay here and stare at the ceiling,” I said dryly.
“No, no staring at the ceiling,” he chided as he turned away from me. I looked over at him and was about to make a sarcastic comment when all thoughts of snark went out of my mind. Having divested himself of his shirt, my lover simply left me breathless. The sunlight played over his shoulders and made the golden highlights in his hair glow as it fell in a mass of waves down his back. Casually, he tossed the shirt onto the chair beside the door and stepped over to the dresser.
I watched him in the mirror, noting the solemnity of his expression as he prepared my next dose of medication. I realized that I ached to curl up against his muscular chest and listen to his heart beat. At the same time, his tanned, bare flesh cried out for me to run my hands over his skin. I thought about the warmth of his body and smiled. He walked over with the tiny white pills sitting in the palm of his hand.
A sudden chill gripped me and I shuddered. “Hrm,” he mused, “I should get you some water.” I held out my hand, expecting him to drop the medication into it but he walked out of the room. When he returned, he held out the pills between his fingertips. Realizing that I wasn't going to succeed at arguing I could take the medication with out his assistance, I opened my mouth and let him place the bitter things on my tongue. He held the cup of water to my lips and I drank deeply.
As he moved the cup away from me, he suddenly tipped it to the side. The last remaining few drops of water splashed out onto my stomach. He heaved a mock sigh of disapproval. “We must get you out of those wet clothes before you catch a chill,” he said, looking over at me with his exaggerated look of seriousness. Unable to help myself, I giggled.
I sat up and raised my arms over my head, unable to stop giggling as he took the flannel shirt off. He dropped it to the floor and ran a hand down my chest and over my stomach. He took hold of the waistband of my fuzzy, soft sleep pants and peeled them off me with brisk efficiency, pulling my panties off with them. He smiled at how I blushed despite myself when he allowed the hunger he felt to show on his face.
“Body heat will keep you warm,” he said moments before stepping out of his pants. His erection stood out proudly as he walked around to his side of the bed. He stretched out beside me, sitting up long enough to grab the blankets and pull them over us. He wrapped an arm about me as he slid up close beside me. “Mm,” he purred in my ear, “You're chilly. I should fix that.” I shivered at the erotic tones in his voice.
“You know, this isn't a good idea,” I said. The other half of my statement melted into a liquid sigh as his hands moved over my body with a silken touch. Slightly woozy with my fever, I found myself helpless in the face of his merciless gentleness. Feather light caresses seemed to settle upon everywhere from the waist up. Firmly, he guided me to lie upon my back.
He rolled on top of me, his erection pressing insistently between my thighs. I shivered with pleasure and the fever's touch. His mouth settled over mine and he kissed me, stealing my breath. Between the weight of his body and the length of the kiss, my illness weakened lungs burned and I felt like there simply wasn't enough air in me. Rather then panic, this had merely served to heighten the sensations that came from how his body moved against mine.
I struggled with the urge to cough and turned my face away from him as he pushed up onto his arms. Pressing my face into the pillow, I coughed. My body seemed to be held suspended between the pleasure of his nude body against mine and the misery of the aches and pains of illness. He skimmed his hands down my sides and shimmed down my body.
I groaned in pleasure and then gave an undignified sneeze. Rather then being deterred by this, he gave a little laugh before nipping at the skin just over my left hip. I sneezed again and he bit me harder, leaving marks behind. I yelped in protest. When he dragged his tongue over the marks, I found myself positively dizzy with pleasure.
When he lifted his head and began teasing the bite mark with his fingers, I found myself ready to throw the covers off us. Anticipating this, he said firmly, “Don't move.” I thought about saying something but then he parted my thighs and placed a kiss on my labia. He lapped at my sex, slowly stoking my arousal until I shuddered with my orgasm.
I gasped and suffered through another coughing fit. He lifted his head and made a thoughtful sound. He made his way up the bed and looked down at me. “You're not well enough for much more, are you?” he said thoughtfully. I looked up at him, torn between blinding lust and crushing exhaustion. He settled himself between my legs and gently began to fuck me. As my second orgasm rolled over me, he thrust harder and faster. Soon, I had a third orgasm as he climaxed.
The sheets and blankets in disarray, I shivered at the cool breath of air that blew in the open bedroom door. “My poor baby,” he sighed, pulling the covers over me. Wrapping me in his arms, he snuggled up close. As much as I hated to admit it, the warmth of his body helped as much as the rush of sex to soothe the aches out of my back. I thought about expressing concern that he was going to come down with the virus now but sleep dragged me down into unconsciousness, leaving me only enough wits to be aware of the warmth of his body and the soothing nature of his presence.
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
Seeking Sanctuary is up and available for purchase.
If you've enjoyed my little scenes, take a moment to pick up a copy of Seeking Sanctuary. It tells the story of Vivian Westerly and Johnathan Winters. They are reunited lovers who were thrown together by their mutual friend and mentor Margaret Kronick. Lots of D/s and such in the story. Amusingly, the kink is only part of the story. For this is also the tale of how the Orion group (a syndicate of criminal businessmen and weapons manufacturers) are trying to get their hands on the Stone - Kronick and Westerly's great discovery that can transmute lead into gold and do so much more.
The e-book will be up later this week.
If you've enjoyed my little scenes, take a moment to pick up a copy of Seeking Sanctuary. It tells the story of Vivian Westerly and Johnathan Winters. They are reunited lovers who were thrown together by their mutual friend and mentor Margaret Kronick. Lots of D/s and such in the story. Amusingly, the kink is only part of the story. For this is also the tale of how the Orion group (a syndicate of criminal businessmen and weapons manufacturers) are trying to get their hands on the Stone - Kronick and Westerly's great discovery that can transmute lead into gold and do so much more.
The e-book will be up later this week.
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Author's note: I'll try to write more of this later. This is what little I could accomplish despite being ill and having the attention span of a goldfish. Devotional writing is sometimes more difficult then journaling and sometimes it is easier. Today, it falls on the difficult side of the ledger.
“I feel awful,” I grumbled, pulling the blanket tighter about myself. The cold just made me miserable. It was only aggravated by the weather being raw and unpleasant. Sitting on the wide settee with the tartan blanket that had been in his family for generations, I was in a sulk. He looked at me and smiled.
“You're the most beautiful woman in the room,” he soothed. I looked over and discovered a tray with a hot cup of tea in his hands. He had some how divined that it was precisely what I was in the mood for.
“I'm the only woman in the room,” I retorted and he laughed as he set the tray upon the little table that was at my elbow.
“Then you have no rivals to worry about,” he responded. I couldn't help the derisive snort as I reached for the tea. His large hand moved with a surgeon's deftness, sweeping the cup away from my grasp with out spilling a single drop. “Nope,” he chided, “Temperature first. Hot beverage next.” I rolled my eyes and restrained the snarky comment that came to mind. He held the thermometer out and gave me an expectant look. With a sigh, I opened my mouth and then closed it upon the device. As I waited for it to give the inevitable conclusion that I was indeed feverish, I watched him set the tea cup down upon the tray and rearrange the small assortment of toast, biscuits, and fruit upon the tray.
“Now, let's see what we have, shall we?” he said as the thermometer chirped. I opened my mouth and he took the device. A small frown curved his lips. As cranky as I felt, I couldn't help the small twinge of guilt at the fact that he lost his pleasant smile that he had earlier. “You're almost due for your next dosage. Drink up, then we'll get you off to bed.”
“I'm sick and tired of sleeping in bed all damn day,” I snapped. He fixed me with a stern look over the top of his glasses. “That's all I've been doing for the last two days. I'd like to spend some time doing something other then sleep,” I continued, realizing after the fact that my words came out more like a whine then I had intended. He adjusted the blanket over my lap, making a point of tucking the end over my chilly toes.
My nurse-maid gave me his best glare. Arms crossed over his chest and stern disapproval written all over his face, he silently made it quite clear that I had no chance of winning this argument. “Drink your tea,” he said mildly, “Then medicine and bed for you.” Sullenly, I took up the steaming cup and sipped. I found myself quite unable to help the sigh of pleasure as the honey laden beverage soothed the ache in my chest with its warmth.
I leaned my head back against the back of the settee and closed my eyes. I was bored. I was restless. Most of all, I felt guilty for the fact that he wound up taking a day off from work to tend to me. Here we were, two o'clock in the afternoon, and I was still in my flannel pajamas. A pregnant silence filled the room and I opened my eyes to look at him. “Drink up,” he said, gesturing towards the cup. I took another sip and glared at my feet.
Feverish and wrapped in a woolen blanket, I still felt like my toes were ice. “Feet?” he asked. I nodded. He moved the blanket off them and began to rub them between his hands. “You truly are beautiful, no matter how ill you feel, you know,” he said gently. I scoffed. His warm hands massaged my soles as he looked appreciatively at my toes. “Every last, little toe,” he said, lightly running his finger tips over the tips of my toes. I moved to pull my foot away when he gripped my ankle. “I'm not done yet,” he said firmly, “Finish your tea.”
I arched an inquisitive eyebrow as his hands moved to my ankles. Lightly, he dragged a single nail down the back of my left ankle. I yelped and nearly spilled the tea into my lap. His gaze flicked from my foot to my face. Something implacable lurked there and I took a hasty, inelegant gulp of tea to avoid gaping at him. The barest hint of a smirk twitched his lips. Allowing me a few more moments to take a few more swigs of the rapidly cooling tea, he watched me like a cat would a mouse.
Deciding that it would be wiser to set the cup aside before asking him what on earth he was thinking, I turned my attention from his ominous stillness to the table at my elbow. The moment that my hand was well away from the cup, he dragged his nails from the heel of my left foot up to just above the ball. I yelped and tried to pull my foot away out of reflex. The smirk emerged as he repositioned himself to hold my ankle tightly against his side.
Monday, October 21, 2013
His lips against my cheek, he murmured, “Don't move, little dove.” He turned the knife so that the edge was resting against my skin. The steel whispered over my left collarbone and I groaned. My heart hammered harder as I felt that storm grow close to breaking beneath my skin. He set the edge vertical against my shoulder about an inch from my neck.
Slowly, he drew it downward. I gasped at first and then, unable to help myself, I threw my head back and I screamed. The orgasm shook me hard. The pleasure was so intense, that I didn't feel my head strike the wall or hear his laugh of triumph. All I was aware of was the burn of the cut and how the edge of the knife ever so slowly parted my skin. When he lifted the blade away from my shoulder, he had scored a mere scratch of a bare inch in length on me. In the moment, it felt as though it was more.
He dipped his head and ran is tounge over the beads of blood welling up along the scratch as he put the flat of the blade against my upper arm. The combination of sensations threw me over the edge again. My second orgasm didn't make me scream but my knees threatened to give out beneath me as I shuddered hard and gave a low groan. He made a small noise of disappointment and turned the edge of the knife against my skin again.
I gasped as he lifted his head and scored another line in my skin. I wept and struck my right fist against the wall. He gave an amused chuckle before stepping back. A single drop of blood hung pendant on the knife's edge. I stared at it, consumed by the thought of the taste of blood and the idea of taking the knife in my mouth as I would his penis. Some how knowing the thought that passed through my mind, he brought the blade to my lips.
I opened my mouth and with infinate care, I licked the drop of blood away. It seemed to melt on my tongue, bringing to mind the taste of his cum. He carefully placed the blade farther into my mouth, smiling as my eyes rolled and I began to breathe faster. With the greatest of caution, he put the edge down against my tounge. Careful not to cut me, he slid the knife in and out of my mouth. As he forced me to felliate the knife, my mind went to the thought of doing so with his erection.
He took the knife away from my lips and turned it so that the unsharpened edge was against my jaw. Too caught up in the sensations to notice the difference in the edge against my skin, I groaned with my orgasm as he dragged it down my throat and over my chest. He came to the waistband of my skirt and slipped it between the fabric and my skin. I shuddered with pleasure.
I opened my eyes and looked at him, feeling drugged with lust. He stepped back and I suddenly wondered what I had done to make him leave. My breath froze in my throat as he stepped out of his pants. A part of me wanted to throw myself on my knees and take him in my mouth. Another part of me wanted to shimmy out of my remaining clothes and beg him to fuck me. Trapped in indecision, I merely stared at him.
He took the knife from where he had set it and held it in his teeth by the handle. He then took hold of my skirt and pulled it down off my hips, taking my panties with it. Crouched at my feet, he took the knife out of his mouth and gestured towards me with it. He inscribed a small circle in the air, indicating that I was to turn around.
I did so and then gasped as he ran it up the back of my right leg. He moved back away from me and pulled me towards him. “Hands on the wall,” he said firmly. I braced myself against the wall, finding that I was looking down at the floor. I tried to guess what he was going to do next only to gasp in surprise when he lightly traced a line across my lower back with the tip of the knife. “Don't move,” he commanded.
My knees almost buckled as the head of his erection pressed into me. Slowly, relentlessly, he penetrated my slick sex. I gasped, shuddered, and came several times before he was fully inside me. Buried deeply in me, his erection felt impossibly large and hard. Pinned into place by his manhood, I could only whimper as he resumed dragging the knife over my skin. At first it seemed random lines he was drawing on my back. Then orgasms overtook me and the world seemed to go white with pleasure.
It seemed an eternity that I was trapped in that place of pure delight. He lifted the knife away and my senses returned slightly. My entire back seemed lit afire. I would have squirmed if I had the presence of mind to do so. He then passed his hands over the raw skin and a crushingly powerful orgasm slammed into me. In that moment, he wrapped his hands about my hips and began thrusting hard. I whimpered and then screamed as he seemed to thrust harder and harder with each motion. All thought had fled me and I was left only with animalistic howls of pleasure.
When he had spent himself, he stopped moving. His softening erection was buried almost painfully deep in me. My body was ablaze with pure lust. I whimpered and made other sounds, pressing my fingers hard against the wall, trying to claw my way into it. He leaned forward and wrapped an arm around me. His free hand snarled in my hair and he pulled me upright. As he did so, I wailed with pained pleasure and sagged against him, not caring that he had slipped out of me as yet another orgasm rolled over me.
In my ear, he whispered one word. “Mine.” I shuddered, groaned, and came yet again. He abruptly let go of me, watching as I crumpled to my knees. I whimpered, squirmed, and arched with pleasure as a faint breath of air curled over me. He towered over me as I writhed with mindless lust. The faintest of drafts whispered over my skin, making me groan and cum. Satisfied with his work, he put his pants on and left me laying on the floor in a strange mixture of agony and ecstasy.
Sunday, October 20, 2013
I pulled back away from him, only exaggerating my torment as he closed his teeth tighter and my nipple was pulled away from me by the motion. “Stop...” I started when he changed his line of attack to dancing the tip of his tounge over the now hypersensitive flesh. I shuddered with pleasure, all thoughts of resistance flying out of my head.
His hands smoothly moved up my ribs to end with one at each armpit. I looked down at him in bewildered bliss before he dug his fingernails into the tender flesh there. I gave a small shriek of alarm and threw myself back out of his grip, his nails leaving long furrows in my skin that were almost deep enough to draw blood. He grinned at me.
“I'm not in the mood,” I snapped, “Not after that.” He took a step towards me and I retreated back a pace. He lifted one hand and made a come hither gesture. His gaze burned with lust and a cruel smile curved his kissable lips. The part of me that was holding to my irritation with the world was beginning to shift to a sudden need to flee as he slowly moved forward. Down beneath that surface thought, things inside me were softening and warming with need.
It had been a bad day. As much as I hated to admit it, I welcomed if not yearned for this sadistic little game of his. As soon as the thought struck me, however, it was mercilessly quelled and I looked away from him for a moment, trying to determine if I had a clear path to the doorway to the next room. That moment was all he needed.
In three swift strides, he crossed the space between us and backed me up against the wall. He took hold of my wrists and pinned them to either side of my head. I tugged at them, trying to break free of his grip. He laughed softly and tightened his hold, making the small bones in my wrist shift slightly. A little yowl of pain escaped me and I tossed my head.
“Come on,” he purred, “Fight me. Or surrender.” As he said the word 'surrender' his grin widened and a hellish light lit his gaze. I gave a little eep of alarm. He laughed and came up so close to me that we were nearly touching. His bearded face rasped against my cheek as he leaned forward. In that husky, tempting voice he said, “Either way, you're going to scream for me.”
My world swam. The rush of arousal that slammed into me would have made me stagger if I wasn't pinned against the wall. The horribly erotic promise laden word 'scream' made it suddenly difficult for me to breath. The warm, musky scent of him filled my nose and brought to mind the taste of his skin.
“Oh god,” I groaned. He laughed. It was like the bliss of the perfect bite of chocolate melting on your tongue, morning sunshine, and my favorite fluffy warm robe all rolled into one. “You're fighting dirty,” I gasped as he slowly breathed on my neck.
“Mmm,” he mused, “Efficent.” I shuddered. He nuzzled where my shoulder met my neck. “So, are you going to fight me?” he asked.
“Can we just say I argued with you?” I offered. He made a sound that was something of a cross between a growl and a chuckle before sinking his teeth into my neck. I gasped and cried out, my eyes opening wide in surprise even as I could feel my genitals growing warm. Continuing to make that terribly erotic, primal sound, he pulled his head back a bit, tugging on where he had bitten me. I tossed my head and kicked him in the shin as I flailed in sudden frustration.
He laughed and abruptly let me go, pushing off to step back a pace. He fixed me with his brilliant gaze and spread his hands wide. I shook my head, sliding my left foot towards the door. His gaze snapped to my ankle and then back to my face. He suddenly reached forward as I moved. His hands just missed me as I bolted for the door.
Again, he laughed. I scrambled around the corner and down the hall, desperate to put enough space between him and I so that I could gather my wits and breathe. I came to a halt before the end of the hallway and I looked back over my shoulder. With a wide, feral smile, he stalked forward. “You know, this isn't a good idea,” I babbled, backing up a pace, “Really. I've had a long day...”
My heart was racing. Torn between blind lust and unreasoning terror, I struggled to find words, coherent thoughts even. He stopped just beyond arm's reach as I was backed up against the wall. “It's about to get longer,” he said, reaching into his pocket. I swallowed past a sudden lump in my throat as he pulled out his pocket knife.
In the half light of the hallway, the edge gleamed silver when he opened it. I stared at the blade like someone entranced. I didn't notice him stepping closer to me, as I couldn't tear my eyes off of it. It glistened with a cold, cold beauty that betrayed it's razor sharp edge. I knew how sharp its edge was, for I had sharpened it just the night before. Slowly, the knife moved up to where it was before his face.
I blinked, surprised to find him so close. “Do you yeild?” he said quietly. I swallowed nervously. Suddenly, I couldn't fathom the meaning of what he was saying. All of my mind was consumed by the thought of the blade and that icy kiss of steel against my skin. Ever so slowly, the knife drifted towards me. He turned it slightly, sending a sharp thrill through me as the light flashed down its length.
“Do you yeild to me?” he said again, all amusement dropping out of his demeanor. For a brief moment, I was struck with clarity. I realized all that was being offered, not only the means to feed my viciously suppressed desires but something more, a way out of the horrible place I was in earlier. Unable to find my voice, I merely nodded.
He moved with the sudden speed of a snake striking. One moment he was standing solemnly before me, the next the unsharpened back of the blade was pressed against my throat and his chest was against mine. That was when I dimly realized he wasn't wearing a shirt. Slowly, the cold, cold steel passed down my throat just over my hammering pulse. Each agonizing inch, I could feel something building within me.
I struggled with the urge to toss my head and writhe as this terrible pressure build up deep within my bones. I bit my lips and shut my eyes as tightly as I could. His dark chuckle only intensified that rising force within me. His moustache rasped against my cheek as he placed a mockingly chaste kiss on it. I gave a strangled, almost pained sound of pleasure as a few tears escaped my tightly shut lids.
The warm, wetness of his tounge caught the salty drops as they fell even as it carressed my skin. I groaned but did not move.
Friday, October 18, 2013
Author's Note: I'll edit this later and add on the rest of the scene when I get the opportunity to finish it.
His hands settled lightly on my shoulders. “You're stressed,” he said in an equally light tone. The care with which hs approached me only heightened my irritation.
“I'm not made of glass,” I snapped. I didn't need eyes in the back of my head to know his expression. It would be droll or consillatory. It was almost always so when I got testy. I simply had been having a rotten day and I didn't know what I wanted.
There was a cold, calculating tone in his words that surprised me when he said, “Are you not fragile?” A part of me responded to that level tone by turning soft with arousal. Irritated by this, I scowled and started to reposition myself to get up out of the chair.
His grip on my shoulders hardened. I opened my mouth about to demand that he let me up. He pressed his thumbs hard against the pressure points on my shoulders. I gasped as the world went white with pain and exstascy. Held in that wickedly delightful and agonizing place, I was dimly aware of his voice as he said quietly in my ear, “Shall I try your strength?”
I tried to speak but could only manage a throaty moan. His touch suddenly turned light and I gasped, shuddering with pleasure. “Hmm,” he mused, “What you need is a distraction. Not all of this damned work infront of you.” As the rush of arousal began to subside, my annoyance surged back with greater force. I straightened in the chair and pressed my hands flat against it.
“No, what I need is to get this shit done,” I snapped waspishly, “You're not helping matters, at all.”
He moved swiftly and put me into a headlock. I tried to pull his forearm away from my neck as I shouted, “Not fucking funny.” He grinned and tightened the hold, putting firm pressure upon my throat. My heart beat quickened and despite my insistance of the contrary, I found myself enjoying his unexpected attention. Torn between maintaining my irate attitude or succumbing to his attentions, I grabbed at his wrist.
“Hilarious,” he murmured in my ear with that silken tone that always made my panties wet. Even as arousal pooled in my hips, anger flared. I twisted in his hold, reaching to pinch his thigh. He laughed darkly. “Oh, fight me,” he purred, squeezing tighter, “Pour that anger out on me, little girl.” His voice was like a caress to my senses and I couldn't help how my eyes rolled and the shiver of pleasure.
Breathless and dazed, I found myself profoundly thankful for the fact that I was sitting when he abruptly let go. He stepped back and gave me a feral smile of challenge as I turned to face him. “Come on,” he said, arousal making his tone rich and smooth, “You were looking for a fight. Come fight me.”
“Damn it,” I snapped, suddenly remembering my annoyance with the whole situation, “Does everything come down to sex with you?” His smile turned into a grin as he leaned against the wall. I stood up, attempting to will my heartbeat back to normal as he rubbed the stubble on his chin with the back of his hand. I started to step away when he suddenly stepped forward and took hold of my wrist.
I turned and tried to pull my wrist out of his hand but he continued to hold on, moving forward with the motion of my arm. We danced back a few paces. He wrapped his free arm around my waist, holding me firmly against himself. He smiled down at me. “Let g--” I started to demand when his mouth muffled mine. His kiss seemed to pour liquid fire into my veins and my knees started to feel a bit weak.
The hand holding my wrist let go and found its way to the back of my head. He took hold of my hair and broke the seemingly endless kiss to pull my head back. My throat bared to him, he lightly nipped at my pulse before gently closing his teeth over my windpipe. He made a low noise deep in his throat and I shuddered from head to toe in some pleasurable feeling that I simply couldn't identify.
His mouth moved down from my throat to the bit of my right collarbone peeking out the neckline of my shirt. His teeth closed over the thin skin and he rolled it beneath them. I groaned, failing to notice when he let go of my hair. His hands traveled down my shoulders and around my ribs. They paused long enough to cup my breasts as I swayed slightly on my feet. He gave a low, evil laugh before he took hold of the neckline of my shirt.
“Nasty bit of fabric,” he said with another laugh, “Let's get rid of it, shall we?” I had almost gathered my thoughts enough to respond to his statement when he tore open the offending garment. My squeak of surprise made him grin wolfishly. He pressed his face between my breasts and took a deep breath. Expecting him to gently tease my breasts with his mouth, I gave a startled cry when he bit down on my left nipple.
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
His thumb moved lightly along my cheekbone, as though he held a bird in his hands. Such care, such delicate touches left me weak. I closed my eyes in an attempt to quiet my mind. It only served to heighten the sensations of his touch. His voice was low and his face was so close to where my shoulder met my neck that I couldn't distinguish what he was saying at first, then it dawned on me that he was singing.
As I listened, it occurred to me that it was a very old song. While I couldn't understand the words, the tune lulled the frantic terror in my heart and I felt a lassitude pass through me as he sang. Cautiously, I set my right hand against his chest. He reached down and covered it with his own, his voice not wavering in his song.
I looked down at the hand covering mine. Work hardened yet clean, I could feel the strength in it. Just as that strength held me so gently and close to him, I realized, so it could protect me, if only I let it. The realization seemed to chase my terror away to the wind buffeting the hall. I was so tired of the caution and I felt heartsick for the grief I had experienced where I had sought kindness. Caught up in the morose sorrow that I felt over the past, I missed when he had finished his song.
As it occurred to me that he had fallen silent, I leaned away from him. His hold upon me softened, allowing me enough space to lean back far enough to take a good look at him. His expression was solemn as he looked at me. “Speak,” he said. I started to look away when he frowned slightly.
I swallowed nervously and said, “I'm nothing special...”
“You are special to me,” he retorted, “Go on.”
I restrained the urge to bite my lips and continued with, “What I mean is that I am just a normal...”
“You are amazing. You are strong. You love with the depth of the ocean. Why must you make so little of yourself?” he said, cutting me off again.
I opened my mouth to give a rebuttal and then realized that there really was no excuse for what I did.
“We must break you of this terrible habit,” he said, reaching up to brush a lock of hair from my eyes, “It is part of the reason why you are so sad all the time.”
I looked down at my hands, which had settled in my lap. “Listen to me, little dove,” he continued in a maddeningly calm and terribly compassionate tone, “You did no wrong. You deserve no evil or harm to befall you.” My vision blurred with sudden tears as he cut mercilessly through my lie of omission to the heart of my terrors. “No hand will be raised against you here,” he explained, “Save if you will it. But that requires a greater degree of comfort then what you have right now. You are going to relearn kindness. You extend it to others but flee it when it comes to you. This stops, starting now.”
I blinked the tears out of my eyes. “How do I know this is real?” I said, half choking on the words. He smiled warmly and gathered me closer to his chest. I felt terribly, terribly small. In the warmth of his presence, it suddenly seem such an awful thing to feel so small. He pressed his lips against my right temple. The bristles of his beard rasped softly against my skin. Every so quietly, he murmured his answer.
“How do you know it is not?”
Thursday, September 26, 2013
The taste of honey, pears, and apples mingled with the bite of alcohol long after it had made its way down to my stomach. My host began to pile food upon the plate before me. As he did so, he spoke of something but I found it hard to concentrate on his words as I watched his clever hands neatly prepare the growing assortment of sweets and savory things into a delightful sight. Somewhere in the midst of things, he had gone quiet. It was only when his hands stilled that I looked over.
A fond smile played on his ever so kissable lips. As soon as I realized that thought had gone through my mind, I blushed. The smile deepened into one of pure delight as I ducked my eyes away from his face to look at my cup again. “You truly do like me,” he said, sounding both amazed and joyful, “And you haven't the slightest clue what to do about it, do you?” I swallowed nervously and looked over at the burnt rind of bread.
A warm touch on my chin raised my eyes to look at his face. I stared at him, my mouth dry and my heart hammering. That touch went from my chin to settle between my breasts, the silken fabric proving a futile barrier from keeping his fingertips from feeling the wild beat of my heart. “Why are you so afraid of being happy?” he asked. I looked everywhere but at him. When my gaze seized upon the cup of wine, I seriously considered reaching for it. “Are you truly that terrified?” he continued, in that quiet, calm and saddened tone. I looked at him imploringly, begging with my eyes that he discontinue his line of questions when I simply couldn't find the courage to say anything.
His expression was deadly serious as he looked at me. I looked away, hating myself for being the cause that the smile had left his lips. He took my face in both his hands and pulled me to him. I gasped in surprise as his mouth closed over mine. I trembled, I shivered, and I found myself caught between pure terror and pure bliss. His kiss lit a flame down deep inside me that made me ache for yet more of his touch.
I panicked. I threw myself back out of his arms and into the chair. I looked about myself, wild eyed for an escape, desperate to flee this merciless assault that threatened my self control. He smiled and I froze. A warm hand caught my wrist and gently drew me closer to him. A part of me screamed that I needed to fly even as I found myself moving to the edge of my seat, almost touching him.
For a moment, the panic won out and I started to pull my wrist out of his grip. He tightened his hold and wrapped his free arm about my shoulders. “Sit with me,” he said, smiling. I shivered. “You are safe here,” he continued, using that low, soothing tone of earlier, “No harm will come to you in my home.” I closed my eyes and turned my face away from him, unable to bear the sweetness in his gaze, too afraid that he would see how broken I was inside.
I let him guide me to sit with him in his chair. He held me close, his face buried in the hollow of my shoulder. After a time, the shivering of terror began to subside as we simply sat together and breathed the same air. “You are not broken,” he said quietly in my ear, “You are triumphant. You are scarred. You are not broken.” I closed my eyes hard against the sudden tears that welled up and scalded my cheek. “You will never be broken,” he continued, resting a broad hand on my thighs, “You are far too strong for that.”
“This isn't how the story goes,” I said, my voice cracking with distress. He rubbed my back in great circles.
“Is it?” he replied, “Then how does it go?”
“I.. I don't know. I shouldn't be like this,” I said in a rush, warming to my irritation with myself for being so spooked by him and the response that I had to him.
“Oh,” he said mildly, nuzzling my neck. “You should stop being so hard on yourself. You're allowed to feel pleasure. It's part of the reason why you are alive,” he sighed, turning the word 'alive' into an almost erotic thing. His fingertips settled over my heart again. Lightly he traced a path up from my heart to over my left breast and then up along my throat. As his hand reached my jaw, he cradled the side of my face in his palm. “Living is about more than existing,” he said, as he let his breath curl against my throat.
“You're so fierce in so many other areas,” he sighed, suddenly tightening his embrace to punctuate 'fierce'. “Why must you flee here? Why must you be so quick to run? You know what you want. Your blood sings out for this. Why must your head be the master of your heart?” I bit my lips.
“Let it go. For one night,” he plead, “For one night, let this terror go.”
Saturday, September 21, 2013
The mist was heavy and it set a chill through me. I looked about the grove. The trees had begun to wane, but the leaves were still fairly thick upon them. In the moonlight, it all seemed darker and more primeval. At the center of the grove, there stood a wide boulder that had been used for several years as a makeshift altar, picnic table, and bench by the group of pagans that owned the property. This night, I had managed to avoid their company and had the space to myself.
I shivered within the woolen cloak that I wore. I had mistakenly thought that the heavy fabric would have served to trap more of my body heat. It was one of many errors in judgment that plagued me this evening. My bare feet were scratched from the stones on the path and screaming in pain. I was fairly certain that I had a bruise forming on my shin where I stumbled into an overgrown root along the edge of the path. Stumbling, however, was my delicate way of admitting that I had tripped and went sprawling. I was fairly sure that it was only pure luck that kept my little basket from dumping its contents onto the ground and down the hill.
I passed through the edge of the circle that was fashioned from field stones at the edge of the treeline. As I did so, it seemed as though the chill became less intense. I wasn't sure if I was becoming acclimated to the cold or if something of magic was at play. I was too worn out. All of my plans for a ritual seemed to have gone wrong. The items I had set aside vanished with the exception of the bottle of wine. Unfortunately, this included the ever so necessary bottle opener.
I thought about just giving up on the whole affair when the weather report came in. Clouds that were forecasted were stacking up to the west. I felt cold, tired, and miserable. It was only pure force of will that brought me up here on the verge of a stormy night. I walked around to the leeward side of the stone and crouched down. The wind blocked, I started to feel a little less rotten.
“I was an idiot for planning this,” I grumbled, setting my basket beside me. A misshapen loaf of burned bread and a shaken bottle of mead stared up at me from the basket. “Ah well, at least I'm doing it. That counts for something, right?” I sighed, “Might as well get on with it...” I set the bottle and the loaf of bread on the stone. I stood and unfastened the clasp at my throat. As the wind picked up, it knifed through my flesh when I took off my only garment and set it down on top of my basket.
I was about to make the invocation when the sound of movement caught my ear. My heart lept into my throat as I turned. The scuttling clouds paused in their play with the moon long enough to let his light gleam on the blond hair of the man striding out of the wood. I gasped, expecting to be alone at the hour. He walked up with an affable smile, even as the wind tossed his hair about. The linen of his shirt was shockingly pale against the darkness. I couldn't help the terrible sense of vulnerability.
“You're cold,” he said, holding out a blanket, the leaves crunching beneath his boots as he walked across the circle to me. “This isn't weather to be out like this in,” he said with a touch of warm amusement in his voice, “Unless you're one of those silly polar bear people.” I bent down to gather my cloak and hide myself behind the stone, but he was upon me in moments. Next thing I knew, he had wrapped the surprisingly warm woolen blanket around me and he was picking up the cloak to drop it about my shoulders.
I struggled to find my words but this man proceeded to bundle me up. My feet and hands felt terribly cold but I had to admit that the blanket's warmth was more then welcome. “Storm's going to break soon, c'mon. Let's get you to some shelter,” he said, “What ever you're up to can wait until the weather passes. It's going to get cold tonight.” I thought about retreating down the path back to the cabin but my rescuer looked at me expectantly and my teeth were chattering.
I started walking silently after him when he paused and looked closely at me. He frowned. “Nope, this is not going to work. Wait here,” he said, handing me the basket. He turned and walked off into the darkness. Convinced that we were finally parted, I turned to walk back to the central stone when the sound of hoofbeats caught my ear. I turned slowly in amazement to find him leading a roan stallion forward out of the dark wood. He smiled at my stunned look.
“Come on,” he said, waving me over. “This will be faster and easier on those feet. I'm surprised you're not complaining after walking up here with out any shoes on.” I looked down at my feet and shrugged. He clucked his tongue at the horse and the magnificent beast dropped down to its knees. “You don't know how to mount a horse. Let him help you,” he said, moving to help me onto the back of the horse in question. “Now, hold on to his mane, right there,” my mystery man continued, “Hold tight. Don't worry about hurting him. He's tough.” Obedient to his directions, I found myself seated on the back of the powerfully built horse and unable to help my squeal of alarm as the horse rose.
He laughed and vaulted up onto the back of the horse, wrapping an arm around my waist. He held me firmly against himself and gave a shake to the reins. Again, I was surprised as the horse started forward. “Oh, this … this isn't safe,” I said nervously as we started forward towards the forest. The man at my back laughed and kicked the horse into a run. I screamed in terror, bringing my hands up to cover my face as we bolted forward, convinced that disaster was sure to come.
“Ye of little faith,” he said with an amused smile as I cringed against him. The rider and horse seemed to move through the wood as though it was nothing but grass. Trees reached towards us but nothing touched us. As the darkness grew complete, a sudden fear wrapped around me. Some how sensing my fear, the man with his arm around me said, “It's not much farther and you're perfectly safe.” I was about to argue the impossibility of such a thing while riding through a forest in the middle of the night when we burst out the edge of the treeline into a place that was surprisingly bright considering the hour.
I squinted against the light, when I realized that before us there was a bonfire and on the other side of it was what appeared to be a hall of some sort. I blinked and the basket slipped from my nerveless fingers. The man caught it just as it fell out of my grip, reaching around me with both arms as he gave the horse his lead. The roan walked forward around the bonfire. As we reached the entrance to the hall, a pair of solemn eyed men walked out the door. Upon seeing me, their expressions brightened. One nudged the other before turning and calling into the building that we had arrived.
A full breasted woman with a dusting of flour over her apron and hands walked out, muttering something about distractions. Then she looked up and her grumbling turned to a sharp scolding of the man who had called her. The man holding me laughed as he let go and dismounted. He helped me down from the broad high back of the horse, smiling broadly as the blanket slipped and a flash of my body was revealed.
A blush washed over me as I wrapped the blanket tightly about myself. I began muttering apologies for disturbing them when the woman turned from scolding the man I had gathered was her husband to looking at me. Where she was all annoyance with her spouse, her expression was kindly as she looked at me. She noted the blanket and clucked her tongue with disapproval. “That won't do, not at all,” she fussed. Next thing I knew, she was herding me into the building, taking the basket from me, and nattering on about how he had been waiting for me to come calling.
We passed by several individuals who looked up from their respective meals with surprise. Laughter and good will seemed to ooze from the very walls as the people sitting at the tables noted my passing with cups raised in salute or smiles. Quite bewildered and more then a little bit self-conscious, I found myself ushered into a large, well appointed room at the end of the hall. The woman with me fussed a bit over a chest bursting with fabrics before pulling out a grass green gown with gold interlay. I thought about protesting when she decked me out in it.
I realized, however, that the cloth was warm and felt good upon my skin. She picked up a comb and then put it aside with a sigh. “No, nothing I can do with that mop,” she said with a tone of disappointment, “Just wasn't right of you to chop it all off like that. Be that what it may, I have work to do and himself is waiting for you. Go on out.” She made a shooing gesture and ushered me out into the hall.
My host looked over from where he was conversing with someone with impossibly copper red hair. He noticed when I looked around, visibly uncomfortable. He excused himself and walked over, his smile seeming to grow impossibly brighter as he looked at me and drew closer. “Come, sit,” he said, “Let's have some of that wine.”
“I.. I can't,” I started when he gave me an amused look.
“You brought it for me. I want you to drink with me. Now, you were saying?” he replied, taking me by the hand and leading me to a chair beside his own. I started to open my mouth to argue but simply couldn't do so. Seated to his right, I stared at the table and realized that I was terribly hungry. I twisted the fabric of the gown between my fingers, uncertain of what I should do. Panic was rising in me as the weight of the gaze of all in the room settled on me.
“I.. I need to go,” I stammered, “I should leave. I.. it is rude of me to be here. I...” He smiled kindly and the panic flared brighter in me. I could feel my hands beginning to shake as my heart hammered. He took my hand in both of his, setting them upon his knee as he turned to face me. Holding my left hand with his, he reached up with the right and brushed a stray lock of hair out of my eyes. I cringed back away from him, my gaze darting to everywhere but him.
“Look at me,” he said quietly in a low tone that I knew he used with his horse. I wasn't sure how I knew it, but I just knew it with all the certainty that gravity still functioned. Gently, he touched my jaw and guided my face so that I couldn't help but look him in the eye. A white hot stab of terror shot through me and I closed my eyes tightly, shuddering with fear.
He sighed. I expected that he was going to do like everyone else always did when I tried to shut down, break physical contact and turn away. Instead, he gathered me into his arms and held me firmly against his chest. A part of me screamed that I needed to flee. Another part of me wanted to sink into his embrace and hide from all the people there by way of his broad chest. For some reason that I couldn't define, the urge to weep rocked me when he said very quietly in my ear, “You are perfectly safe here. No one will harm you.”
Too strained by the situation, I failed to keep those sobs bottled up inside me. I gave a great, body wracking sob, followed by another, and yet another. I wept with my terror, strangely feeling safe enough to express it. Wave after wave of tears flowed from me. With it, fled my strength. Even as my sobs subsided, I realized that something had changed. I some how felt lighter. And then it struck me, I was not terrified. Instead, I was exhausted.
Too weak to do much more then stare numbly at the gathered, who had watched my display with neither approval, disapproval, or any distress of their own. In their faces, I saw some kindness, some pity, and some wearied knowledge of what I had just experienced. My eyes widened in amazement when I realized that not one soul there looked on me with disgust or contempt. I started to sit up when he tightened his embrace ever so slightly.
I laid my head against his chest, listening to the slow, steady sound of his heartbeat. Listening to it, I seemed to feel some measure of strength return to me. Calm, as though I had woken from a deep, peaceful sleep, rose up in me as I slowed my breaths to match his. I closed my eyes again, focusing more upon him. The fabric of his shirt did little to trap the heat of his body. It felt as though I rested against the warmth of a sunbeam. The thought made me smile.
“There,” he said, “That is much better.” He relaxed his hold on me, leaving the impression that I was welcome to remain in his arms or to sit up, however I pleased. My stomach rumbled and I sat up, looking slightly chagrined by the visceral sound. He chuckled. “Emotions are hungry work,” he said with a smile, his green eyes alight with good humor.
I looked at the table and cringed when I realized that sitting proudly before my host was the burned loaf of bread. “Oh my,” I sighed, “You really shouldn't eat that. It came out horribly...” He laughed and picked it up. As he broke it into halves, I found that within the charred crust, the bread was tender, yet dense and gave a wonderful, yeasty aroma. I stared in shock.
He laughed again and set the unburned portion on the platter before me. “Oh, no, no, no...” I said in a rush, “No, you should take that. I'll take the burned.” He grinned and tore off the blackened bit and popped it into his mouth. I couldn't stop myself from gasping in dismay and clapping my hands over my mouth in a wee fit of horror. He laughed aloud as the rest of the hall resumed their buzz of activity.
“Haven't you ever had toast?” he laughed, “Burned a bit over an open fire? This is nothing. Now that one over there...” He pointed down to the end of the long table where a lean, red haired man grinned at me and hefted up a cup. “He burns damn near everything he cooks. Travel with him and you have to learn how to eat your bread toasted or raw. Isn't that right?” my host laughed as the red haired man gave a graceful shrug before taking a deep drink of his own cup, looking entirely pleased and amused with the whole situation.
My host turned to face me, smiling. “Perhaps a drop of wine will soothe you,” he said. He clapped his hands and the woman who had decked me in the gown was at his side in a twinkling. He gestured to the cups and she filled them. As she stepped back, she gave me a matronly smile of reassurance. He picked up both cups and pushed one into my hands. “I bid you welcome in to my home,” he said as I took hold of the cup.
“I.. I thank you for the pleasure of your company,” I said in a small voice. He made a small gesture, indicating that I was to take a sip of the wine. As I did, some one down the hall gave a cheer. True to his word, as the wine slid through me, I felt calmer. I took the cup away from my lips and he grinned. I flushed to the roots of my hair and dropped my gaze back down to the wine. Deciding that what ever proved so promising of calm in the wine would do me greater good, I took another drink.
Friday, September 13, 2013
I struggled with the urge to put down my head on the desk and cry. It was past deadline and all of my attempts to get even a rough draft written resulted in crumpled paper with barely a paragraph written. I was fairly certain that my creative writing professor was going to shoot me one of her patented withering looks as she ever so calmly and calculatingly delineated just how poor of a student I was when I finally did get the project to her. It was almost eleven o'clock at night. I was exhausted but I just didn't want to sleep.
I was avoiding sleep until I was so tired that it was that deep dreamless sleep that came from sheer exhaustion. I was avoiding the dreams where he came to me. Dreams so vivid that I was certain that they were real. The dreams of him weren't bad, per se, but they unnerved and distressed me. I got up from my desk and walked about the room. I sat down on my bed and closed my eyes against a throbbing headache that was rising up from the base of my skull.
At first, there was blessed darkness that made the glare of the lamp on my desk go away. Then I was in a forest in late afternoon. I looked about myself with a sudden flare of panic. I tried to will myself awake when I heard footsteps. I didn't look, I knew who was coming. It was him, the one who would have me. This dream was different, it did not run in that curious fashion of blurred time and images. It all was painfully crisp, as though I were in a physical location and it were reality.
He laughed. It was a sound that was luxurious, thrilling, and entirely disorienting all at once. I realized that I had never heard him laugh in my other dreams. I tried pinching myself and screaming at myself to wake up. I pointedly ignored his approach and tried to will a purple unicorn, or something else equally improbably in reality into existence. I discovered, much to my dismay, that my efforts were for nothing.
He stood behind me, his perfect, nude body mere inches from my scarred, over weight, and all too flawed one. Bad haircut, acne, aching knees, and eczma all in place, I looked exactly like I did in 'real life'. He did not place a hand on me. He merely stood there behind me, the warmth of his body reaching my skin like a ray of sunlight against my back. He passed a hand over my shoulder, not close enough to touch and yet still some how making contact.
That sensation of warmth trailed from where his hand passed, soothing away the chill setting goosebumps over my skin. He leaned forward, putting his face near the nape of my neck and took a deep breath in. I felt as though some tendril of that which was my essence was drawn in with his breath. It felt as though it were a deep, intimate touch that was made ever so lightly that if I wanted to deny it, I suppose I could have.
He moved closer, bringing his left hand around to pass over my left side in the same fashion that his right ran over my right arm. I shivered, dizzy and a touch weak with the confusing tide of feelings that this phantom touch was evoking in me. Deciding that he was going to settle himself with this eerie, spectral caress, I felt some of the tension fall out of me.
In that moment, he wrapped his arms about me and pulled me against himself in an intimate embrace. His mouth was warm and soft against my right shoulder as he placed a gentle kiss there. His touch against my skin seemed to burn or like an electric shock, even as pure pleasure rolled through me. His skin against mine, this effect of his presence was more powerful, the more our bodies touched.
He shifted so that he had my form cradled against his own, our legs touching each other. My back was pressed against his broad, well muscled chest. His arms were settled about my waist and across my chest, holding me up as the strength bled out of me. As my head lolled back against his shoulder, his hold tightened and the dizzying wave of pleasure strengthened. “Let it all go,” he murmured in my ear.
The sound of his voice was like an intimate touch that sent a shudder of pleasure through me. I realized, there was no way I could run from this. I couldn't escape the feelings of pure bliss, and in that moment, I didn't want to.
Friday, August 16, 2013
I stared at the manuscript, resisting the urge to grind my teeth in frustration. It had been an hour since I first sat down to work on it. A long, excruciating hour that made my brain ache. I desperately wanted to write, but the words refused to coalesce. After several false starts, multiple changes in musical inspiration, and three or four distractions, I was torn between the urge to create and the urge to give up.
It had been weeks since I worked on it. Life had conspired against me and this work seemed to be resisting the jump start I was trying to give it. I wondered if I should chalk it up as deceased and shuffle it aside like so many others. A creative miscarriage brought on by stress, much to the grief of the author who was torn between mourning it and fury for its passing.
I leaned back in my chair and ran a hand through my hair. It was finally starting to grow out. I was looking forward to it being long enough to tie back into a ponytail or a braid. Anything to keep the maddening fly-aways under control with out my ever present headscarf. A rock song that sounded like perfect stripper dance music blared out of the speakers of the computer before me. It felt patently false, like every word that I pounded out to the page.
“Ninety percent of sitting in the chair,” I muttered to myself, reminding myself of a variant of the magical formula of how to write a novel. Reportedly, it was ninety percent of sitting in the chair, nine point nine percent tears, and one tenth of a percent inspiration. I felt close to adding more to the tears category, though my pride kept me from bursting into tears. “Tea, I need tea,” I sighed, pushing away from the desk. My guts roiled with self disgust.
Vicious, spiteful memories from my youth rose up in whispers at the back of my mind. I stared blankly at my coffee cup. I looked at it and wondered how it was that I came to be in possession of a cup that so perfectly resembled a cabbage. It seemed to be the ideal distraction from the despair bubbling up inside as I tried desperately to find away out of the ennui closing in around me. In a dazed bit of a sulk, I gathered my tea and boiled some water on the stove.
The kettle rattled and clattered to announce that the water had reached boiling just as my new writing partner made his presence known. He took one look at me and pronounced, “You're thinking too hard.” I resisted the urge to glare at him. In the span of the last few months, he managed to pick up on my moods and their relationship to my writing effortlessly. He leaned against my kitchen counter and crossed his arms over his chest.
I could feel him looking at me expectantly. He was waiting for some snarky comment, some dry witticism, or a quick summary of the puzzle that had me so stymied. Instead, I poured the water into my mug and tried to will my tea to steep faster. I could feel his gaze on me like a phantom touch. I focused my attention on stirring sugar into the brew. I didn't need to look over to know there was an amused smirk.
I stalked back to the computer and plopped myself down, ungracefully, into my chair. As I gave the screen a sullen glare, my blond haired companion leaned down and looked as well. “This series of vignettes are actually quite good. I don't know what's making you so surly over this,” he said pleasantly. He looked over at me, a sudden grin on his face. “Oh, I know what it is,” he purred, “You are stumped on what to write next, aren't you?”
And there it was, the thing I was trying very hard to ignore, the very thing that he knew I couldn't ignore – the sexual tension between us. I reached for my tea and stared very hard at the period in the middle of the last line of text I wrote. He shifted his position into a half crouch at my side, somehow managing to move closer to me. His face was beside mine, almost close enough to touch as he said quietly in my ear, “You could write about me. Turn me into a character in one of your stories.”
One arm was wrapped around the back of the chair low near the seat. The other was resting lightly against the edge of the desk, his hand inches away from mine. A part of me was screaming that I had to flee. It was an unreasoning terror that held me motionless as his honeyed voice quietly assailed my resistance. “I'll answer any questions you have,” he said, looking from my face to the computer screen, “Any question at all. After all, I'm here to help.” There was something suggestive in how he said the last statement that made things deep inside me uncoil to go soft and molten.
I stared at the screen, my hands hovering over the keyboard. I frantically struggled to think of something to say. He leaned away from me. Suddenly, I let out a breath that I hadn't realized I was holding. “I guess the basics would be a good place to start,” I blurted, feeling like a bumbling idiot. I didn't see the predatory grin that flashed over his face at my apparent acceptance of his solution to my writer's block. “I don't need to know where you were born or anything like that. Um.. How about your social life? Are you seeing anyone? What are they like?” I rambled, the words escaping me before I could stop them.
“Social life? Well, it's much like anybody else's, though there is someone that I have in mind. She's a bit shy, though,” he said. I opened a separate document file and started a bulleted list. I gave the roughest of physical descriptions of the man to my immediate right. He was a hair over six feet tall and built like an athlete. I suspected he played something like rugby from the times I had seen him wearing a jersey for Manchester United. His shoulder length hair was a honeyed gold that brought to mind the sheen of wheat in the late summer sun and had an unexpected amount of curl to it despite it's apparent weight. His eyes were like the color of peridot, though at the moment they seemed to have a deeper sheen to them. The tan was clearly genuine; a fact that oddly relieved me.
The thought that this intense man was willing to fake and bake a tan just didn't sit right with me. His hands were not the hand that one expected from a writer. They were broad and work hardened. As I looked at the great paw sitting just beside my own dainty digits, I wondered for the thousandth time if the skin was as tough as it looked. Somehow aware of my curiosity, he lightly touched the back of my hand. I suppressed the urge to jump in surprise and merely played it off as though I had gotten distracted, careful not to look anywhere other then the computer screen.
“What kind of hobbies do you have?” I asked, realizing that in the last several months of working together I didn't have the faintest clue what he did to relax. It seemed that all we talked about was the writing we were working on. The current series of short stories was supposed to be a companion piece to a larger work that he was in the midst of editing. He said nothing and I looked over.
His expression had gone still, though a smile still played on his face. I set my hands down in my lap and waited. “You are going to fight this as hard as you can, aren't you?” he said finally. I started to look away when he set his right hand on my knee. The heat in his touch seeped in through my clothing and soothed the faint ache in my arthritic left knee. “You are just going to cut me off, compartmentalize everything, and turn this into an intellectual exercise, aren't you?” he said, his frank assessment gentled by the warm amusement in his tone.
I was torn between taking offense at his efficient summation of my efforts and embarrassment over his effortless perception of what I was up to. I tore my eyes away from his face and looked down at that hand resting on my knee. “I know you,” he said quietly. He moved closer, his expression turning from amusement to something more sober, something solemn. “You can't run forever,” he added, “I'll hunt you down. I will chase you and I will catch you.”
“Oh come on,” I scoffed, warming to the quick flash of exasperation that came at his choice of analogy, “I'm not running away.” I looked over at him, allowing the annoyance to show, taking comfort in it. “Anyways, you don't know me that well,” I added.
“I don't, do I?” he said, dark amusement creeping into his voice. “Right now, you're choosing to be annoyed and offended rather then admitting that the idea of being pursued just got you hot and bothered. You are trying very hard to ignore my hand on your leg and the feelings that evokes. You are distressed and excited by the fact that I know this and I'm forcing you to look at it. It makes you feel like you're being undressed. That excites you and the excitement distresses you. But, I don't know you that well, do I?”
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. A flush burned on my cheeks and set a pricking sensation over my upper chest. The hand on my knee moved to the outside of my left thigh and slowly inched upwards as he leaned close to me. “You want this. You want me. And you're terrified to take the chance,” he said, his eyes holding my gaze as though I were charmed. I opened my mouth to argue with him but I couldn't make a sound as he rose.
“You are petrified by pleasure,” he murmured, his left hand moving up my side to the side of my face. “And you can't help it,” he said in a honeyed tone as he slowly leaned down towards me. A shiver ran through me from head to toe. I couldn't speak. I couldn't think. Panic lashed at me and insisted that I had to flee. All my cleverness failed me. My barbed comments and snark lay about me like wrapping paper torn off a gift.
His mouth was just above mine as he delivered the killing blow. “You're mine,” he breathed, “I just have to claim you.” I gave a startled squeak as he moved suddenly. A crushing kiss bruised my lips even as his hand snarled in my hair. Boldly, his tongue pushed into my mouth to curl along mine and set a shudder of pleasure down my spine. A muffled moan of pleasure that I hadn't realized making escaped me even as my eyes closed.
The taste of his mouth, the scent of his flesh, and the boldness of his action left me dizzy more surely then the way I grew breathless. Somewhere in the confusing mix of pleasure, terror, desire, and some other sensation that I couldn't define, I realized that this precise moment had been what I wanted from the moment I had laid eyes on him.