Visitations

He lay alone in the dark, waiting. This time he would not be drugged with sleep when she stepped silently into his chamber. He would not again lie acquiescent while she touched him, tasted him, took him, rode him. He would not again be so foolish as to drift into sleep while she left him with no explanation for her appearance and no apology for her flight.

Slowly the moon crept across the sky, silvering the branches of the old oak outside. Slowly the cold seeped into his bones. Beneath a window limned with frost he drew rough woolen blankets across his pallet. Outside the shutters rattled a little in a forlorn wind, an owl cried from the old oak, a lone leaf of ivy twisted and fell.

Falling. Falling. He woke with a start. The door whispered on its hinges, and a slim figure stepped into the chamber. She moved concisely, delicately. She carried a white candle in a plain pewter dish. The flame flickered a little as she moved. From beyond the light that encircled her he watched with hungry eyes.

She wore her hair piled and pinned upon the top of her head. He knew it would come tumbling down when he raked his fingers through it. In the garden she had worn a necklace of pearls, but it was gone now. Dressing down for the staff, he thought cynically. He couldn't blame her. His attic garret made an austere setting for her pale beauty; the ivory oval of her face, the glossy black tresses, the lush lashes that framed her eyes, the taut curve of her throat. The skin under her square neckline was delicate and silken smooth, her breasts fiercely constrained by a corset of whalebone and linen. Under the relentless black brocade her waist was slim, supple within its cage, the curve of her hips hidden by voluminous skirts, silk upon silk upon linen. Her skirts proceeded her like an escort, followed her like a retinue; protected her, surrounded her, armored her. She seemed to feel the black fortress of her mourning made her inviolable even as she rode him.

She placed the candle upon the night stand and stepped to the bed. He lay still. She leaned down and peeled back the wool and the linen that sheltered his body. He was aroused already, the fine soft skin of his cock pulsing a little in anger and need, capillaries dilated, veins inflamed. Her breath was soft in the night. Amidst the great bell of her skirts she knelt and took the tip of his cock into her mouth. She was unexpectedly gentle, and he closed his eyes as his anger morphed into confusion and desire.

His eyes flew open on a gasp as she tilted her head back to caress the whole hard length of his cock within her throat. He caught his breath at the beauty of her, the curve of her cheekbone and the line of lashes and the inflammatory sight of his flesh housed within the rosebud cavern of her mouth. Of their own volition his hands rose to spear through her hair. He brought the glossy black tresses tumbling down about her shoulders to lie soft as a kiss against his tilting hips, then caught them up again in his hands to reveal her mouth upon his cock as if drawing back a veil.

"Come away." He tugged at her hair to pull her mouth from his cock, and she allowed him to pry her away with only a parting rasp of her teeth in protest. She grasped her voluminous skirts in both hands and straddled him where he lay. He held her eyes with a dark gaze as his hands crept under the skirts to stroke her knees, to clamber up the slim thighs. He teased at the lace that capped her stockings about tensed thighs, then his hands crept higher to caress her labia with a featherlight touch. She drew a ragged breath and held his gaze as he probed, running his fingers along the crevice between her lips. He withdrew one hand from beneath her skirt and sucked a long finger as her eyes widened. With the moistened finger he probed her secret places, withdrawing to circle her clit as she trembled, returning to penetrate her cunt slowly, never releasing her gaze. When she was wet and trembling he grasped her hips to sheath the tip of his straining cock in her cunt, and then pulled her downwards, impaling her slowly upon the full, throbbing length of his cock as she moaned.

The flicker of an eye was all the warning she had as he grasped her hips hard in strong hands and rolled to pin her to the mattress. His hand shot up to trap both her wrists, and he pressed her wrists to the bed as she arched her back and struggled. She began to pant in hard gasps, for her twisting ground his pubic bone into her clit and his cock filled her aching body. She had not realized how heavy he was, nor how muscled.

He bent to run his tongue along the fine white lace that edged her bodice, teasing the gauzy stuff with his teeth, dipping his head to sup at the shadows between brocade and flesh. The fluttering flame of the candle threw the dip beneath her collarbone into high relief, and he tasted it as he had longed to do in the sunlit garden. Her legs rose as she writhed to encircle his waist. Her skirts were a billowing wave that washed about them as he tilted her hips to penetrate her more deeply, tormenting her clit with a long finger, gazing hungrily at the clenching thighs and the slick wet shadows between them as his cock slid slowly into her depths. She tossed her head back against the mattress to arch her body like a bow and he slammed his cock hard into her cunt. She called out his name as she came, clenching about him, shuddering, and he came deep within the cradle of her hips.

Slowly he woke to awareness of lace against his cheek, and of small slim hands pushing at his shoulders. "I can't breathe," she whispered. "You're too heavy." At least she was speaking to him, he thought groggily as he rolled off her, scooping her slim torso into his arms, settling her possessively against his chest. The glossy tresses slithered across his skin in an entirely satisfactory way, and her exasperated huff of breath seemed the sweetest caress.

His last conscious thought was that he mustn't sleep, for she would leave him again with no explanation, and speaking decorously to her in the morning under the watchful eyes of the household staff would be an agony. He woke to the first greying light of dawn, a mourning dove groaning in the old oak outside the window, and the faintest scent of musk.