Surrender & Salvation

Ten years ago Skye Monroe left St. Francisville and David Kincaid just as his career was taking off. Now she’s back to take photographs of the bad boy Country superstar on sabbatical as he tries to rehab his image and career. She could have turned down the assignment, but she didn’t. Was it curiosity, the need for closure or something more that brought her home? Whatever the reason, she can’t deny the fire he still ignites within her with just a look, but is she willing to give him another chance?

David Kincaid’s life started to unravel the day he got his record deal, which also happened to be the day Skye Monroe walked out on him. Since then no amount of fame, fortune or women can fill the void she left behind. When she suddenly appears on his door step for a magazine shoot, looking and sexy as ever, he realizes he’s willing to do whatever it takes to win her back. But is it too late to salvage their relationship and what’s left of his career?

Read Part One - Homecoming - here
Read Part Two - Revelations - here
Read Part Three -Memories - here

Surrender & Salvation

by

Fiona Summerville

Declaration

“Skye, what the f-…”  Once again Skye cut him off with a wave of her hand before she picked up her camera and stormed out the backdoor of the kitchen onto the sun porch. Through the panes of the French doors, he watched the hard line of her back slowly start to bow as a barely visible convulsion racked her delicate frame. She was crying. Dammit! David slammed his fist on the countertop. Why couldn’t he do right by that girl, just once? Instead of acting like a dumbass Romeo, why couldn’t he just play it cool? Take some pictures, maybe reminisce a little and just let her go on with her day and on with her life. No, he let the vision of her writhing beneath him as he licked chocolate off her tight, little belly get the best of him and his dick took over from there.

God, she tasted so good. Warm and sweet, just like he remembered. And when she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back, it took every ounce of will power he had not to take her right there on the counter. He glanced out the French doors, again. She was perched on the edge of the wrought iron daybed as she fiddled with her camera. Her eyes were puffy, and the tip of her nose was pink, but otherwise she looked composed. He groaned and forked his fingers through his hair. It was time for him to salvage what he could of the afternoon. He would apologize for his improper behavior, let the girl get her photos and be done with it. There was no use in revisiting something that was long buried and uncomfortable for the both of them.

As he opened the double French doors, a clap of thunder roared overhead, rattling the windows and sending Skye lurching off the daybed. David’s brow furrowed. Thunder storms had always rattled her nerves, and apparently they still did. In the past, he had his own unique way to distract her while the storms raged, but given what had just happened in the kitchen, he wasn’t going down that road again anytime soon. Instead, he stood silently behind her and waited. When a flash of lightning tore across the sky followed quickly by another boom of thunder, Skye hopped backwards. He caught her and wrapped his forearm across her chest, pulling her to him. She struggled against his arm, but he didn’t let her go. “Shhh, Skye. I’m sorry about earlier.” He felt her stiffen, but he continued softly. “Hush, baby…I know how you are with storms. Just relax.”

“It’s starting to rain.”  She said simply as she stopped resisting.

He wrapped the other arm across her chest and chuckled softly hoping to ease the rest of the tension he could feel coursing through her body. “You still have an incredible grasp of the obvious, Ms. Monroe. Rain is usually the end product of a storm.”

“It's just that I was hoping to see – get some exterior shots of you on the property.” She sniffed. “You know, Hillbilly Rock Star at home in the swamps, and all that.”

The melancholy in her voice tore through his heart. She had always loved this place, and by her wistful tone, she still did. She used to enjoy “getting lost” on the property. Which meant she would keep to the trails until her wanderlust took over and then he would find her further back in the woods than he felt comfortable with her going, but she would just laugh and tap the pocket where she carried her Kimber .45. He snugged her tighter. “You can still see the property, Skye. Once the storm passes, we’ll take the Gator out. What were you thinking? Maybe get some shots of the Hillbilly Rock Star chopping wood or wrastlin’ ol’ Hank?”

She giggled, and relaxed into his arms.  “Hank’s still around? I figured someone would have gotten that old cagey alligator by now.”

“Nah, he knows he’s got a good thing going. From what Dad tells me, he rarely ventures more than 50 feet from the dock. Probably doesn’t help that Dad started feeding him marshmallows.”

“Marshmallows?! You’ve got to be kidding!” Her laughter danced through the sun porch causing David to smile softly. God, he missed hearing that sound. He rested his chin lightly on the top of her ball cap and pulled her closer when he felt her flinch as the lightning and thunder began an all-out assault in the sky around them. The temperature had dropped a few degrees, and the air smelled clean and fresh. He would have liked nothing better than to cuddle up on the daybed with her and listen to the rain on the roof, but he knew better. He sighed, resisting the urge to plant a kiss on her bare shoulder. “Come on, Girl. Let’s go inside. Maybe you can take some photos in the music room while we wait for the storm to pass.”

She nodded and he dropped his arms, turning to lead the way back in only to have her scamper past him as another deafening roar of thunder shook the house. He laughed as he pulled the doors closed behind him. “Gee, Skye, don’t worry about me. Save yourself.”

“That was pretty bad, wasn’t it?” Her eyes and nose crinkled as she laughed. “I almost forgot how bad the storms get out here. We don’t get anything nearly as violent in Cali.”

“You like living out there?” He asked as they walked down the hall toward the stairs.

“It’s nice…temperate.” She replied, her tone unconvincing.

“Have you ever thought about moving home?” He asked softly.

She paused for a moment as they climbed the stairs, gazing thoughtfully at him. “Yeah, I have. As pretty as California is, there’s just no comparison to the wild beauty of the swamps. I got some of my best landscape and wildlife photographs out here. Like they say, there’s no place like home, but…” She let her thought trail off as she continued up the stairs. “What about you? Do you miss it when you’re away?”

He stayed silent as he followed her up. Considering he had only been home twice in the last ten years, on the surface, he supposed the answer was “no”, but in reality it was more a case of not wanting to be in the place that reminded him most of her. It was only his father’s insistence that he take a few months off to regroup that brought him home this time. Unfortunately, instead of getting his shit together, he spent his first weeks back in an alcoholic haze trying to outrun the memories that confronted him in every corner of the house. It was bad enough her memory dogged him on the road, but here her spirit was hardwired into the house. He couldn’t write, couldn’t eat. Hell, he couldn’t even sleep in his own bedroom. And, now she was here, in the flesh, and more under his skin than she had ever been before. Why had she come back? Was she trying to prove something to him, or to herself? She let him kiss her, but then pushed him away. Was this her attempt at some cruel game of payback? If it was, she was winning. Fuck! She was killing him.

He threw open the doors to the music room and made a bee-line for the wet bar. He could feel her eyes boring into his back as he grabbed a new bottle of Jack Daniels and cracked the seal. He knew his change in demeanor had startled her, but he didn’t care.

“Please David, don’t.”

“Don’t what, Skye?” He growled. “Don’t drink? Don’t kiss you? Don’t fuck the groupie? WHAT?!”

His roar reverberated through the room. She moved towards him slowly, carefully, as if she were approaching a wild animal, setting her camera on a nearby table. “David, I care about you, but this…this isn’t you.”

“Oh, that’s rich.” He snorted as he splashed the amber liquid into a crystal tumbler. “You care, now? It would have been nice if you’d cared ten years ago, but you didn’t. You just ran. For what it’s worth, I never slept with her, Skye. I never intended to sleep with her. You saw what she wanted you to see, and you believed her, not me. You just didn’t love me enough to find out the truth.” His voice cracked taking with it the dam that held back ten years’ worth of emotions. He moved to where she stood stock still, eyes cast downward. Tears burned in his eyes as he tipped her chin back forcing her to meet his gaze. “Why did you leave me, Skye? I thought you loved me.”

She tugged her head free from his grasp, and he let his hand drop. “David, I tried so hard to support you and your dream. I knew how much it meant to you. And I was fine with it all, the traveling, the late nights, even the drinking, to a certain extent. The only thing I couldn’t deal with was the women.” He tried to interject, but she stopped him with a wave of her index finger.

“It wasn’t anything you did, David. You were so good. Coming home to me even when I knew the guys were still out blowing off steam after a gig. Calling me every night when you were on the road. You did everything right. It was me...my insecurities. You may not have slept with Chrissy Jordan that night, David, but there were hundreds of Chrissys out there that were going to try to lure you into bed, and I just couldn’t bear the thought that someday you might actually give in to one of them.  I loved you too much.” She reached a hand up and stroked his cheek as she took a ragged breath in, held it for a moment and then exhaled slowly.

“I still do.”

Steamheat: Beginning Lust

Eliza is in a weakened condition when Captain Malloy finds her stowed away.  What consequences will she have to face? Will he turn around and  turn her in for warrant or something else?  

Steamheat:  Beginning Lust

by

Ben Hannigan

Read part 3 here 

Read part 2 here

Read part 1 here

 

     There was a clicking sound in the back of Eliza’s mind; a low gentle sound that interrupted her dreams. Though she couldn’t place it, she felt her ‘Sister’s’ mouth on her neck and sighed sinking into the embrace as the older woman trailed her fingers down her tummy. Her nails scratching over her nipples, her happy squeals echoing around the room.  But still, what was that mysterious clicking noise? 

     The heat rushing to her cunt, her heart pounding and writhing inside her chest, but still she couldn’t escape into the image. Eventually she sighed, swearing inside her head. She would have to wake.  The noise was obviously outside of her dreams, which meant she had gone left not right at the path, that she had not succumbed to the desire formed in childhood, the desire to just sink in her mothers arms and stay there somewhere safe, but instead she sank back into her body and slowly drifting back into the present. She blearily blinked and groaned as the pain hit, her heart pounding as she felt the pain from her injuries push to the forefront of her focus. She was greeted by a man, naked from the waist up covered with a healthy sheen of sweat and the ships thinking machine cogs moving and clicking as it appeared she was deep in the heart of the mechanical beast sweating in the heat of the room below the engine.

     “Good morning, sieur??” 

     She froze for  a second knowing that her real name would trigger the scans and she would be dragged home to her fate as a sleeve for the cock of a drunken abusive gambler, a cum-rag, a broodmare and potentially a chip to wager in the future. 

     “Eli she reasoned she would recognise the first syllable so she would answer easily. “I am Sieur Eli and you are?”

     “I am Captain James Malloy and lad be honest, it’s more Master than Sieur.”

     “Aye"  She finally replied, panicking as the man who saved her listed off the injuries she had sustained. 

     “Thank you. I fled from an abusive apprenticeship, and a master who intended to….” She took a breath. “I was traded between masters as part of a bet, and well he intended to plunder my virtue.” she remembered that the best lie always had at its centre a nugget of truth. After all, she isn’t lying she reasoned, so she wasn't a bad girl. “He tried and I ran and I found the pod, I was hungry, tired and cold, I'd been running since I don’t know when. Thank you, please don’t send me back Sieur Captain, I will do anything…..”

     Though it wasn’t said, the unspoken offer hung in the air like something they could both almost taste, involuntarily she found herself wet at the thought, suddenly soaked and clenching her thighs, riding  a wave of release into the cotton panties. 

     

      As she did he found himself raking his eyes over her slight frame and just for a split second he thought “gender be dammed” shaking his head to clear the image of the young slight boy he believed her to be under him as he filled him, his hand cupping his partner’s rod. “No, I would not, cannot, such an action is immoral, I will neither force, nor allow ANYONE to force you."

     Her thanks explosive and effusive as she hugged the older man. It felt so right that they were both reluctant to break the contact.  They smiled shyly then waited and talked, They shared stories of their lives both editing a little until Eliza asked about the ships features, of the ship for those who were crew rather than play-acting crew. Specifically the bathroom facilities. 

     He grinned and opened a window, and grasped a rope that looped around the rafters. Dropping his trousers and kicking them off he climbed onto the ledge and naked braced himself against the wood and brass leaning out holding to the rope as he pissed down onto the waters of the ocean below. 

     She looked nervous and hid the arousal behind a blush, staring at the thick pipework on display. 

      Seeing the boys nerves he grinned,  “Ok I will teach you confidence the way my first ship's master did with me.” He swung back into the ship proper and half lifted, half supported his patient's rise from the bed. 

     ‘Eli’ lowered his breeches and kicked them off thankful for the long shirt that hid her strapped down breasts and wet cunt and walked towards him gasping a little at the welcome coolness licking around her bare thighs. 

      “Yeah, it’s much too hot for full clothing in this room below the engine bay, I make it a habit of wearing next to nowt unless I be needed on deck with the guests.” he explained. “Now come here” he motioned to the window where he had lashed a second rope, he swung naked into position bracing his legs against the outer brass wall. “Now, just like my master taught me as a cabin boy, I will teach my new cabin boy.  Right, grasp the rope and lean out slow, for your first two or three times I will support you.” 

      She dropped into position almost nestling into his strong chest, she did what she needed, blushing at the fact she could feel so achingly close to her slit his piece. She squatted for a while relieving herself and swung up and into the room spotting the toilet paper hanging off a nail driven into the oak, wiping an throwing the white streamer out into the murky blue depths. She nodded to him “Cabin boy it is captain, I will serve you and work my passage.”

     "Excellent" he grinned, "now all the sailors on this demented pleasure cruise do a spell in the boiler room, and you and I are no exception.  I do the first as a demo and I do the last allowing them to prance around getting into their uniforms to appear dashing. Come on, we have a lesson to prepare. He grabbed his lightweight linen shirt and scavenged for something similar for his cabin boy, handing her a tight cotton pair of leggings, dressed and ready they walked to the main deck, on the way he briefed her on her duties in the attack, he grinned at the fact that his new crew-mate was willing to play the role to the hilt. Playing both the captured victim needing the captain to duel for his safety, but also the example to the guests, a crew-member taught by “THE BLACK CAPTAIN” The dashing, confident, dirty fighting, honourable officer. He found she could handle a blade and a pistol and grinned punching the numbers in the thinking engine for a scenario not done since his own master piloted the ship.

     The captain stood on deck in his long frock-coat, shirt, and leggings. The cabin boy scrambling up the rigging to the great bell, the bell that the guest/crew had been briefed to expect, the noise that signified playtime was over and the ‘work’ was to begin. With a nod from her captain, Eliza lept onto the long rope hanging from the clapper of the great bell that hung under the nose of the airship gas blimp. The bell easily thrice the height of a man and five or six times width echoing, swinging off the rope she dove down and back flipped onto the deck to stand next to her master. Her gymnastics as a child helping with the showmanship. 

     The captain nodded to her and she hit the button that created the simulacrum first mate who stood to the captains left. “Alright Maggots, you all be worthless rats but you WILL be silent when our Lord and Master,  the Captain speaks.  Aboard this vessel, He is god, he is judge, he is jury, he is in control. 

     “That will do Christian” he nodded at the flickering image with practiced ease and began to speak. “Welcome to the Cloud Dancer. She is MYship and you will respect her. We have one small matter of discipline to deal with and then I will show you the duty you will all have to do at some point in this voyage.” He nodded to Eliza who gulped as two simulated hulking great Marines appeared and dragged her towards the crowd. “We have a stowaway,  though he is now signed onto the crew-list as my Cabin Boy, he must be flogged.” the Marine held her down and the other produced a wicked cat  ‘o nine tails and began to methodically, mechanically strike her with the fearsome weapon. 

     She held her breath as the first blow hit feeling a pulsing shock, and the second, and third, her heart pounding in her ears.  It took five blows of the twenty before she felt the strangeness in a way that she understood. Rather than pain she felt the thinking machine find the strongest unfulfilled feeling pulsing through her, the naked lust and desire for the Captain.  The blows rained down as her thighs pulsed and she gasped and winced with each blow. The bows shredding her shirt as far as the customers could she. She got hotter and clenched her legs together as the machine manipulated her pleasure centers as if she was being roughly tongued by her lover till finally, she collapsed in what appeared to be pain but was instead the screaming, begging, teary eyed throes of an orgasm.  The machine's tendrils in her head better than anything she had ever felt before, slumping to the floor in a pool of sweat and exhilaration she collapsed shaking, the source and focus of her desires watching and smirking inwardly at the reaction of the crowd and what he naively assumed was simply a flair for the dramatic in his Cabin Boy.

     After the frightened murmurs of the crowd subside and the shakes and tremors subsided she stood nodding shakily and mumbled a short but sincere “Thank you sir.” Looking down appearing to be the very image of a contrite and somewhat overawed freshly punished young half boy/man, with the impromptu show dealt with, he moved through the crowd beckoning them to follow his cabin boy at his heels looking down. 

     They moved down, down, down through twisting tunnels of pig iron and brass till immersed in the very bowels of the ship. The cavernous coal store opening out into the boilers, the flaming mouths gulping hungrily at the coal in them before their eyes. The crowd stood restless as they realized they would have to spend an eight hour shift shoveling, feeding these great belching beasts to earn their cheap route. Their panic subsided like a wave as hey heard the captain's words and saw him begin to demonstrate the shoveling, the smooth constant motion required to stoke the furnaces.  They watched as his hands blurred shoveling the coals, his cabin boy slowly matching his rhythm, no one wanted to be the first to leave, to break the spell but eventually after fifteen minutes the two were alone.

     The rhythm pounded as sweat oozed off their frames, the captain soon discarding his shirt and breeches, wondering why his cabin boy did not do the same. 

     She simply sweated and over the next twenty minutes began to slow; breathing hard, struggling to suck in each lungful of hot, sticky, muggy air. Fighting to keep from panting, panicking, thinking, there being no way to drive the air into her lungs. Sucking, gulping and flailing at the end as she collapsed.  The man she lusted for in the secret recesses of her dreams, rushed and caught her before she stumbled, saving her from splitting her skull on the piled fuel. Seeing her laid not breathing he sliced the shirt open to access the cabin boys chest finding rather than bare skin a series of bindings over her lithe body. Raising her up to unwind the crudely tied linen, he was confronted with a budding pair of breasts; small, crushed, and delicate. Resolving to find the excuses and origins of this “boy” later, he placed his hand on the centre of her chest and rolled his hand across her sternum. Her small breast cupped in her hand as he forced air into her lungs, so obviously overcome by heat. 

     Eventually after false starts that chilled him he was rewarded with the tortured first gasp weak as a newborn. He left the filling of the boiler to the arcane servitor in the corner take the slack before carrying her with care back through the labyrinthe through to his chambers. Laying her gently down to rest he slowly began to undress his patient, bathing each strip of skin unveiled with great tenderness till she was naked and clean before him. Feeling her heart beating with the joy of one just saved, he sat in the chair conflicted, not sure whether to be angry at the lie or aroused by the vision of heaven he faced.

     Naked, laid on the hammock, the rough sisal and hemp fibres covered by his silk lined cloak as she breathed hard her chest rising, she was cream skinned as if always covered but her hands had a  healthy glow as did her neck and face. It was clear that she was no stranger to hard work but there was also evidence of a rough past, faint half faded scars littered her legs and spine; marks from whips, belts, and feet, with a few small licks from a blade --a marking of a brand. A brand of ownership, a challenge, the mark of a family as if a signet ring was allowed to glow white before she was thumped, that mark on the inside of her hipbones. 

     Suddenly things said, things whispered began to make sense.  She wasn’t running from a marriage as the groom but the bride. He took a guess and ran her name through the thinking machines with just an initial. Seeing not only the warrant for arrest for running, she traced back to her mothers death and her fathers murder, there were rumors of mistreatment from her uncle, the nunnery putting forth their concerns about her bruises,  her feral nature, and as he read he sank into a bottle astonished at the cruelty shown to her.

      The woman had been used as a toy without breaking her value, the nurses marking the injuries and old damage and slowly beginning to fix her body, her mind -- well that was a longer undertaking the nunnery challenging her but not pushing her. A relationship with the others of love as they built for her the family she so desperately needed, he read of the love shown in her health and sickness, he blushed heavily stealing glances at the girl “to just make sure she is ok” he told himself, even as his mind was awash with the images from the reports.

     Frank reportage of the relationship Eliza shared with her ‘sister of the heart’, the Mother Superior not only allowing the relationship to remain monogamous because of the love-starved girl’s need for a devoted supporter, but encouraging it. The other girls sharing and swapping affection in their prayers easily and despite the rivalry and frustrated complaints of several of the others at the nunnery, the other girls demanding and sharing their dreams, desires, and bodies as their desires fit. It came to blows several times, Sister Lucy scratched and attacked by those who were jealous at the blanket refusal of her young love to ‘help’, the more forceful girls having to be pushed away and causing feral responses. 

      The girl who crept into Eliza’s bed one night and holding her down and forcibly digitally penetrating herself with her hand as she returned the favour, was attacked by the girl as she woke, scratching and gouging at her eyes; the bright eyed, supportive, loving, well educated woman with iron strong faith returning to the wide eyed feral seven year old, recoiling from any touch, biting at those who reach for her, stealing food and climbing into the rafters, squeezing her way into the smallest overhead cupboards, laying in the dark, shaking and watching warily.

     He read, deeply sickened at the horrors and cheering in his chest for the actions of the Mother Superior taking the girls involved to task, explaining the terrors that the girl had seen. Those who were old enough to understand, the woman shaking with anger as she tore strips off those who had attempted to use the girl for their own ends, she screamed her anger in her tone, in her movements, describing each and every act they knew had happened.  Using the thinking machines to place each and every attacker, each and every woman who touched her without consent into the attack only for a second as they felt the pain, the terror, the fear, in that one flash in her eyes as they reached for her after she had said no, they felt the agony of being trapped in old memories.

     Working off impulse without thinking he sent a vocal message to two people, talking to the woman who saved her and also the woman who loved her as a partner, as a whole person. Letting them know that she was safe, that she was ok and she was safe and almost, in some ways asking permission of the parent and the best friend to attempt to court this angel, her hair short and jaggedly cut, her body showing her inner strength, her breasts small and budding full but small yet somehow large for her frame. She was to him perfectly formed. He remembered the delicious nervousness when they brushed against each other, the comforting warmth, feeling her against him when she required support and when he carried hr slight form through the bowels of the ship.

      He watched her as he talked, as he left a message -- more prayer than request --feeling his body burning with nervous energy and lust, his eyes devouring her body as if without her he would die of thirst. His body flushed and frustrated, he unbuckled his breeches and stroked desperately as he lost himself in hopes exploding on his hand, his chest sticky with sweat and relief. He didn’t notice in his frantic pumping of his hand the two eyes wide in the darkness watching and the small hitching moans as he exploded, nor her confusion, deep confusion at why he didn’t simply take her.  Then it cliked as she came. He was like sister Lucy!  He wouldn’t take unless she wanted and at that point as he covered his chest with his come, she desperately wished she could taste him off his chest, feel him rushing in to put out the fire, his whispered conversation with her  “family” and the frantic pumping of his hand had ignited.   The brushing against each other, the shy glances, the tension, all tinder for the flame; the flame fed by his trust, his support his iron will and movels and the spark provided by that conversation, him asking permission to even try; and fanned into life by watching his impending release. She NEEDED him.

The Dom's Diary: Lace & Whiskey

After leaving us perched precariously on the razor's edge of divine pleasure,  Thorne  engages Clavis Tand's full attention.  Will he get everything he's been hoping for?

Lace & Whiskey

by

Abyrne Mostyn

 

                “We’ll take our drinks in the lower tilt please Ellis.”

                “Yes Pallaca.  One scotch neat and an Applejack, I’ll deliver them shortly.”

                “Right this way Thorne.”

                She gave orders like the Grande Dame of the place as though there was no doubt as to them being followed.  By the reaction of the barkeep, I’d guess there wasn’t.  I followed her as she sashayed down a hallway beyond the lower common room to one I didn’t remember seeing when I had first toured.  I wondered how many other rooms I hadn’t seen.  Walking in, the name made perfect sense as the centerpiece was a tilt table covered in black.  Not the shiny black of leather but a softer brushed looking suede.  All I could think was that must be a bitch to clean.

                She stopped in front of the table and promptly disrobed.  My eyes nearly bled as I watched her remove the chaps via zippers hidden in the outside leg and waist seams.  They fit so well, I had imagined watching her peal them like stockings down her legs while bent over a chair with each foot kicked up in turn.  This image was so much hotter.  One minute she had been standing in skin hugging leather chaps and a cross-back bustier, the next she was standing in a lace thong and a demi-cup bra that barely contained her generous assets.  Everything else cut away quick and was off like warm ups off a basketball player at game time and she hadn’t needed to remove her shoes.  It was inspirational.

                She had cocked her hip out, hand rested on the generous curve, waiting.  Watching me, her face was a chorus of ‘your turn’ but she had said nothing.  Walking further into the room, I was late to notice this one had no door.  It was not that I minded an audience, I hadn’t paid attention to the others to know if this was common or not.  I debated a moment too long and her hips straightened up as she crossed her arms.

                “Surely you don’t expect me to wait all day.”

                “No Pallaca, I was thinking that I’m worth the wait.”

                “You might be.  I’ve already waited though, since Maxim told me you were joining us.”

                It didn’t hurt my ego to know she’d been waiting.  I couldn’t help but wonder if that had her wet as she stood there.  Pacing the room, I walked purposefully around her knowing without knowing that she would not turn as I did so.

                “If I’m to disrobe, you’ll have to match me.”

                “As I’ve already disrobed, I believe it is you who needs to match me.”

                “Darling Cla’vis…Pallaca, I did not come in costume, and I daresay sweetness that I would not look as appealing in lace as you do.”

                A derisive snort was her only reply.  She still had not turned, so I turned her to face me.  Kicking aside my dock shoes, slowly unbuttoning the oxford, and shrugging out of it before I laid it across a nearby chair, I felt her appraisal and saw the question she didn’t voice.  Stepping in closer to her, I reached up and slipped the tiny straps from her shoulders until the fabric fell nearer to her elbows.  The slight demi-cups flipped upside down without the guide ropes to hold them up and in place, her breasts spilling over the fabric.  The cool air in the room was a stark contrast to the warm flesh.   It was my turn to watch as the cobbled buttons at the tips rose like braille.  Skimming them, I ran my fingers slowly around to the simple clasp and freed her, dropping the wisp of fabric down her arms, off, and into one hand, pulling her closer with the other.

                “Now isn’t that better?  We match.”

                Her eyes betrayed the fire I was building, but her lips were set in dissent.  She did not speak, did not sway, only stood there waiting.  I brought her hands up to my chest before setting mine on hers.  Cupping the weight of her breasts, I couldn’t resist the urge to thumb the straining tips.  Nor could I help but notice the soft hitch of her breath as I repeated the movement.  Leaning in I could smell her, clean linen and fresh cotton…crisp, clean, and something else.  I could hardly wait and let my hands slide down to remove the scrap of flesh that barred the last of her from my sight.

                “Ah, ah, ah Thorne…matching, remember?”

                Tracing fingers up her back, I leaned in, whispering to her what I wanted to know…

“Dites-moi je te fais mouiller…”

“Do you make me wet?  You know you do.”

I had hoped she understood the question.  I was pleased to know she did.  I knew she was wet, I could smell it.  I wondered how far she was willing to go.

“Montrez-moi.”

“Fair is fair.  Show me.”

Taking the scrap of lace and elastic that I still held, I took her hands in mine, leading them behind her as I embraced her and leaned in.

“Que vous le souhaitez…my command.”

Seizing the moment, gently, I wrapped the straps of fabric around her wrists, leaving them behind her back as I withdrew a step.   Slowly again, I moved to undo the fly of my jeans letting her watch each movement.  I had not lied.  I was not costumed, nor was I wearing underclothes.  She noticed well before I removed my pants and looked up to my face.  Her eyes had dilated and I caught her tongue dart to wet her lips more than once as she watched me disrobe without watching directly.  Setting the denim over the broadcloth shirt on the chair, I moved back to her, kneeling down.

“Now you need to match me don’t you.”

Again she was mute.  As I knelt, I nipped.  I slid my thumbs under the lace at her hip, marking her flesh with the short nails of the other four fingers down each side as I withdrew the flimsy piece of fabric.  I watched the microdots of goose-flesh dance and chase along her belly, across her hips and down her thighs as I slowly tugged the material away leaving it to pool at the sole of her shoes.  Biting at her thighs, up, over and across the soft line of hair to her hip and biting down harder, her control finally slipped a notch as she let out a soft moan.  Soft, but not soft enough.  I knew she was wet.  I didn’t need to ask again.  I could see it now as it glistened off the thatch of short curls between her thighs.  I had the globes of her ass in my hands and I wanted to spank her.  I wanted to tongue the continents across them as I had when I had first seen her in the community room.  I wanted again to drop her here and now and take her on the floor, but I would not.  I was going to play, and she was going to know I was worth the wait.

“Pallaca?”

Her response was throaty and sounded like soft alto over rough gravel, but she cleared her throat and repeated.

“Yes.”

“You wanted to see me cum.”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember me telling you that I am a gentleman?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what that means?”

“What does it mean?”

“It means Pallaca…ladies first.”