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A Moment Alone

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Heavy grey silk whispers decadently against lissom thighs as her bare feet leave the cool tile of the bathroom and she steps into her boudoir. Sunken footprints in the thick carpet mark her path to the bookcases, and then to the wide leather wingback chair crouching in the golden glow of the reading lamp like a bloody catcher’s mitt. She sits, one leg tucked carelessly beneath her, paying little heed as the loose knot unravels and her robe slips and pools across her body according to its own design. The lamp illuminates her like a rare and precious sculpture in this room of books and bed. Light gleams on her damp hair like shards of glass as it slices along the ebony furrows left by her comb; it dances playfully on the long curve of her thigh and clings to the pale stripe that runs like a vein of quartz from throat to navel.

 

Her library of erotica is extensive and, should she wish, she could choose anything ranging from early Edo period Shunga to post-apocalyptic BDSM (and pretty much anything in between); but this book is the one she wants. The slim volume turns in her hands and the pages flutter dutifully from her thumb as she leafs to the final story and her dark eyes begin to move carefully over the words, relishing the story of Esperanza and her Colonel like a fine wine, rolling it on her erotic palate as she savours their courage and devotion. She conjures the image of the Colonel as she’s encased in the confines of her crimson uniform and catches her lip between her teeth as her mind flicks to her own lover and how well she looks bedecked in her uniforms – the workaday grey serge of the Prison Service, the deadly black wool of the Waffen SS, the tight frogged finery of the Hussars... She gives a low growl of arousal and flicks damp hair from her neck with a measured roll and toss of her head.

 

Her pulse quickens as she devours the bravery and the loyalty of the lovers and, as she imagines herself in the role of the Page worshipping at the feet of her Master, a small bolt of pleasure burrows between her thighs. The thought of pressing her face into the sturdy thigh of her own lover makes her generous mouth twitch, carmine lips parting as a luxurious shudder ripples through her. Stiffening nipples tent the grey silk, the pressure of the soft fabric on those sensitive peaks inflaming her growing desire, and she feels her sex throb hotly.

 

But all too soon the story comes to an end and with a sigh she stretches, her long body arching and curving like a Möbius strip as she luxuriates in the erotic glow, and she flips to the front of the book. The opening tale reminds her of lost afternoons she’d spent being fitted for the most outrageously sumptuous lingerie under the watchful eye of her lover. And the control in this erotic little vignette is so beautifully wrought that it causes shivers.

She tastes the shapes of power and desire as they play out; the words lingering evocatively on her tingling lips like the scent of a woman, tongue tracing their enticing contours as her breathing quickens. It makes her finely sculpted nostrils flare as if catching the scent of danger. She recognises herself in both of these women – the Mistress and the Acolyte – and she takes as much pleasure in imagining Regina’s pride in her protégée as she does in translating Emelie’s trials into the dirty movie that plays in the theatre of her mind.

 

The warm throb between her thighs becomes a seductive pulse and her fingers stray to a nipple. They skate deliciously over the hard nub and she draws her leg up, trapping the dark pulse as she circles the crinkled disc; and she presses her lips together, quickly turning the pages as she speeds through the well-worn words to her favourite sections.  Watch how her eyes widen then narrow, how her lashes flutter; if you look closely, you’ll see how her pupils bleed into her irises like a cat’s. A delicate hue tints her pale cheek and it echoes the faint blush creeping across her chest as her fingers become more forceful; more precise.

The tingle in her lips intensifies as she conjures up the memory of Maggie's hard palm against her rump and of the slippery sensation of delicate lingerie sliding over the hot, red cheeks as she smoothed away the pain before delivering another series of beautiful blows. Heat pools between her closed thighs and she flicks at her nipple with a polished nail, her clit jolting in delightful response to the sharp buzz of pleasure.

The shrouded peak burns beneath her touch. It aches for more as she scratches it roughly; it cries out to be rolled between her thumb and forefinger but she resists, instead she slides questing fingers across her chest and beneath the other lapel to cradle her breast, thumbing her bare nipple as a tightness begins to gnaw low down in her belly.

 

The old, creased leather accommodates her as she wriggles further back into the chair; and, lean thighs whispering past each other, she lowers her leg and digs her toes sensuously into the thick rug. The heavy silk slips from her body like dark mercury; extravagant ivory curves revealing themselves as the fabric slides from her full breasts and tumbles from her rounded hip to pool on the worn leather. Her skin is flawless, the serpentine line of her body hypnotic in the golden light; she’s the embodiment of desire.

 

Dark, lustrous eyes leave the page and she replays the corset scene, heavy-lidded gaze unfocused as the deep, luscious ache in her loins burns its way through her like a peat fire. Her nipples flare as she pinches them hard and she squirms at the burst of bright sensation in her cunt; it’s as if she’s being licked by Madam Satan herself, and she throws back her head with a husky groan and rolls her hips. Forgotten, the book slips from her grasp and she grabs her breasts, squeezing them hard, digging her fingers deep into the soft flesh as the need builds. Cruelly, she crushes their heavy weight into her ribcage, grinding her hard nipples into compressed flesh then twisting and pulling at them until they whiten, and breath catches in her throat as the stinging burn makes her hips jerk.

 

Broad hips roll again and she gasps at the exquisite tension that pulls at her stomach muscles. She frees her foot from beneath her thigh, calf slipping against the leather seat as she extends her curvaceous leg; arching against her hands as she slides them down her long body and moaning softly as she scrapes the fine skin of her inner thighs with featherlight fingertips, slowly trailing them up to the curve of her swollen mound to comb the soft, dark thatch that glimmers in the warm light of the lamp.

Biting her ruby lips, she teases her damp cleft, slowly – oh so slowly – insinuating a finger into the slippery slit and she groans in loud delight as she runs a light fingertip from the silken well to the tip of her clit. The expression on her face is almost one of surprise – as if she had no idea that she could feel these things – but it quickly changes to one of ecstasy as she builds the slippery pleasure, tracing the edges of her delicate inner labia, drawing light circles around her clit until it strains for something rougher. Her open mouth demands to be kissed. Her moans demand to be answered.

 

Alabaster thighs widen as she massages her soft, wet meat. Glistening pink contrasts enticingly against her raven wing pelt and she spreads her lips wide, her middle finger continuing to increase the sweet torture until her muscles are taut with the erotic strain and she can stand it no longer.

Three fingers, then four push deep inside and she cries out at the new sensation, gasping breathlessly as she pumps them against her g-spot. Long, vice-like fingers close once more around her breast and the robe falls from her shoulders as she arches from the deep seat and flings a leg over the chair arm, opening her cunt like a flower to her frantic fingers, and she fucks herself.

 

See how the tension builds in her face; wide, ruby lips thinning as she catches them between her teeth, and dark lashes fluttering on her cheek as she rides the wavelets of delirium. She’s a force of nature, this woman – she knows her body intimately and she plays it like church organ in the quest for satisfaction. The sounds that issue from her throat could make demons dance.

Thick skeins of magpie black coil against her damp neck, spilling wantonly across her flushed shoulders, tickling the hollow of her throat; and she undulates on the strengthening tide of excitement. Hips circling, flat belly heaving; her nipple smarts hotly beneath its growing bruise. She can feel the beast approaching – the dull, grinding beat low down that pulls everything in on itself as the current of sweet urgency surges bright and hard in her clit. Wet fingers emerge into the light and she bathes her swollen pearl in satin, and the sensation is so breathtakingly exquisite that everything ceases to exist but the luscious, blinding brilliance of this moment; and she twists like a feather caught on spiders’ silk as the plume of orgasm races up to engulf her.

 

The rictus of a silent scream distorts her stark beauty and she looks as if she’s suffering the worst of agonies as she succumbs to the forces of climax. Long fingers flex against the swell of her breast, long legs tremble as her whole body stiffens, slave to the demands of lust. She survives the first crushing wave and then she’s filled with euphoric light, and the rictus melts into delighted surprise once more as the steely fist relaxes and caresses her with its hypnotic, velvet touch.

The sweetness that follows is indescribably exquisite and, released from rigor, she writhes helplessly as her fingers skate lightly over her slippery clit and she abandons herself to the pleasures of her body until, at last, she sinks into the depths of the chair in serene contentment.

 

Little crinkles of happiness crease the corners of her shining eyes and, as her breathing slows, she sucks on her fingers, enjoying the taste of her excitement; and a satisfied smile curls her crimson mouth as she gazes across the room and stretches lazily, gasping gently as a silvery aftershock rolls through her elegant frame, before easing herself from the chair like a cat. The rumpled robe slithers from her shoulders and settles like mist around her fine ankles and she pauses for a moment – like a butterfly newly emerged from its chrysalis – before stepping out of the puddle of silk and crossing to the tripod. Her wide hips sway enticingly as she pads across the carpet and bends to smile sleepily into the lens. She blows a kiss and, with a click, turns the camcorder off and follows its shiny black leads to her study.

 

It’s a simple matter to burn her little show onto encrypted disc and she slides it into a padded envelope – along with a few mots d’amour – ready for posting to Maggie tomorrow. A sharp throb issues from between her sticky thighs as she imagines her lover’s reaction to this little gift and she shivers as the ghost of a leather gloved finger trails its way up her spine.