Every fortnight the fantastic ermiliablog hosts a photograph suggested by contributors. People are urged to join in, comment with their paragraph of fiction to accompany the image. Poems, stories, even comments by readers are welcome.
*As stated on my “about me” page, for those who wish to follow my blog, some of my stories — heck, MOST of my stories have adult content. And this particular story does ^^
Genre: A Historical Romance-ish Fiction
“WHO ARE YOU?” She whispered into the darkness. Even in deafening silence, she could sense his presence… feel his gaze upon her. When he stepped into the moonlight, her heart leaped into her throat. She looked into his eyes behind the mask, deep brilliant pools of black… and when they looked at her, she saw something … a powerful hunger, a burning desire. She drew in her breath as her eyes caught something glinting in the soft moonbeam. In the blackness of the night, she stood wide-eyed and perfectly still while he lazily removed her garments one by one with his sword… layer after layer after layer… With the tip of his sword and a devilish smirk on his lips, he hung her slippers, gloves and pearl necklace rather daintily on a tree branch. The cold midnight breeze made her bare skin tingle… or maybe it’s just the way he was looking at her… as though she’s the only woman that he had ever known… She wanted to walk up to him and touch his face…run her fingers along the strong jaw, the cleft of his chin, the perfectly chiseled mouth… Idly, she wondered what his face might look like under his mask… her hands itched to tear off the black concealment and obtain the pleasure of staring at his divinely handsome face… for the rest of their lives… A thrill ran through her body as she had visions of him sweeping her off into his big black stallion, the two of them riding off into a castle somewhere… or a ship… or a shack… or a cave… she didn’t care… she’d go wherever he goes… as “the Bandit’s wife. Her thoughts nearly made her swoon.
In a swift yet surprisingly gentle motion, he carried her into his arms and lay her under a tree, on a sweet bed of moss. She snuggled against the warmth of him… He buried his fingers into her rich auburn hair, his other hand freely roaming her body. His palms were strong and rough and she loved the delightful contrast against the softness of her breast… her waist… the insides of her thigh… She sat prettily on his lap and she could feel his urgency.. He poured sweet kisses on her lips, down her neck, her shoulders.. When his mouth encircled her breast, it made her gasp… but it was nothing compared to when he came on top of her, leaving a trail of hot, wet kisses downward ‘til he reached her engorged womanhood. His tongue lapping languorously at first, then feverishly… She had nearly died. When he came up, she could smell herself all over him, but she wasn’t even slightly repulsed… In fact, she grew more ready for him. He slid inside her with ease… Her eyes flew open at the first sharp stab of pain but soon she was drawing up her hips to meet his thrusts… and together, they created a special rhythm… celebrating in an age-old dance… their bodies and souls thrusting to an ancient tempo building higher and higher in intensity and finishing off with a magnificent flourish.
Happy, sated, she looked at him with adoring eyes and slowly reached out her hands to remove his mask… He didn’t protest. Her heart was pounding in her throat and her eyes grew wider and brighter as each second brought her nearer to the grand revelation…. “Mr. Clayton!” , she gasped. In panic, she started grabbing whatever pieces of her clothing she could get her hands on while sputtering curse words with great passion. “What’s wrong, darlin’?”, he drawled. At that, she felt the rage inside her reach its boiling point. “You sonofabitch! You’re married! You have kids!” , she shrieked. The look on his face told her that he didn’t see any problem at all. “But I’m ‘the Bandit’ .”, he said, enunciating the name as though it were reason enough. She slapped him fiercely across the cheek and ran home. “Damned virgins,” he muttered under his breath, “I’m a hero, not a saint…” He walked to his horse. Maybe he ought to turn his attentions to that pretty young Miss Maddie Gibson instead.
© 2013 K.Z. Morano