remember that wee story that I started, and Will Crimson from Erotic Writers added a second piece too? You can find it here. At the end of summer he *challenged* me to continue on with the tale (as did many of you readers!). He sent me this “starter bit”…rather like sourdough bread…you get the starter, make your bread with it, save the rest in the fridge, and there it grows, quietly in the back of your mind..er…fridge…until you’re ready to come back to it and create more. That’s what Will did to me…and between that and the two very erotic tales he’s posted recently, got me “kick-started” into writing once more. This first part is his…mine continues after the “*****” break… ~nilla~
After her cry, after the taking, exhausted on knees and cheek, the dark of sleep and more overcame her.
She awoke with a start. She had been carried to a desert tent. Her feet were tender. Her back was sore. Her legs were stiff. The place between her thighs was still wet and warmed by a man’s unction. She rose onto one elbow. She had been placed on a bed of rugs. A mellow morning light sifted through the flapping entry-cloth. The wind blew off and on, and the sound of the sand was the sound of the desert breathing.
Pillows had been placed under her head and under her knees. Her muscular legs had been left open – her breasts uncovered.
Her skin was silken with a sheen of oils. She had been massaged, her lips cleaned, and the cleft of her throat perfumed. Her hair had been braided with jade and onyx. Her nipples had been pierced and her clit also; but they had not dared to touch the fragrance deposited in her womb.
But there was something more.
She reached lower, between her legs, and felt a fullness in the entry to her bowels. She tenderly turned onto her hands and knees, reached behind her and groaning, withdrew a bone penis. The base had been carved into thick and rounded wings. Attached to the base of the carved penis was a jeweled chain and a small scroll bound by a golden chain and wax seal. Another jeweled chain fastened the bone penis to the piercing of her clit. She set the carved bone between her thighs.
She broke the wax seal and released the tiny scroll.
Allah be Praised. You belong to me now, treasure of treasures, gold of gold, gem of the desert and my oasis. I bring the moisture of my love, the silver of my nutmeg, to moisten your lips, your thighs and your cunt. Be ready for my return. I thirst for the nectar of your mouth, breasts and the mouth of your belly. Be ready, my graceful dancer, my gazelle, my cheetah. Part your muscular thighs. Let the pillows lift your knees. Be ready for your master. I hasten. My lips and loins are heavy with dew.
And then, because she could walk nowhere with the carved bone loosely attached to her clit, she closed her eyes, mouth opening, as she pushed.
It was done. She lay, gasping, at the return of fullness to her bottom. A strange warmth moved through her lower body. The throb of her pierced womanhood was echoed by the steady throb of her stretched anus. The chain that connected the bone shaft to her clit lay against her lower lips, a teasing whisper of touch.
She didn’t want to wait for him. She didn’t want to want him, this powerful desert man. Sheikh or no, he was a man, and she wanted to belong only to herself. The thick carved penis in her bottom reminded her that she had made a choice.
Laying on the carpets, pillows under her knees, she stretched. The best cure for aching limbs was work, her dance teacher had always said. Her toes curled, then arched. Her ankles rotated, her thighs and buttocks were eased this way and that. Her arms rose over her head, fingers stretching far, then clenching. For a moment she was in her studio at the barre, arching over her lifted leg. A single tear leaked from beneath her closed lid. Turning cautiously, she rose to hands and knees, arching her back. Catlike, she practiced the yoga moves that helped keep her back flexible, her hips open.
The deep voice behind her was filled with reverence.
“It is a wondrous sight to behold, my sweet concubine making herself ready for me!”
Her voice was dry. She couldn’t, wouldn’t be nice to him. She was from fucking New York city, and she had a reputation for dealing with overly enthusiastic fans quickly, rudely–
Rough palms slid over her oil-slicked skin, pressed the hilt of the sword that impaled her dark moon. A moan slid from her lips as his fingers followed the curved hollow to the deep rose entrance.
“The sunrise hues that guild your cleft are beauty beyond compare,” he murmured. The press of his hands moved to her hips, pressing her forward, down, until her head rested on the vivid rug below her. Her bottom rose higher, the soft curve at the base of her back an enticing and inviting curl. Her body begged to be caressed, to be admired, to be taken.
He stepped away, his footfalls silent on the thick rugs of the tent. The wind flapped the lower edge of the tent; she watched the fabric balloon and ripple. In moments he was back, kneeling beside her. His fingers glided over her mouth, her lips parted, tasting herself there. He pressed another thick, carved phallus into her mouth, this one shorter, wider than the one between her bottom cheeks. Tapping her cheek, he rose. She took that to mean to not remove the item he’d placed there. Against all imaginings, she obeyed, wondering what would happen next. His finger slid from the nape of her neck, tracing the line of her body. Palms smoothed over the curves of her ass, the sides of her thighs, over the soles of her feet. It would seem that he was accepting the invitation implicit in her posture.