amazon_syren (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
amazon_syren) wrote2006-09-18 09:09 pm
amazon_syren) wrote2006-09-18 09:09 pm
Entry tags:
The Rose and he Glass III
This one has, if not sex, something fairly close to it. :-)
Part I
Part II
The Rose and the Glass
I dressed myself in a simple linen gown, blue-grey, with no need for complicated pocket hoops or difficult lacing. The bodice was cut very low at the front – a day ago, I would have felt daring and grown up, wearing such a thing. Now I felt overexposed. I tucked a kerchief around my shoulders, covering myself at least a bit more modestly.
Breakfast, itself, was an informal affair of fruit and bread, cheese and sausages. I nibbled a pear, sucking the juice off my fingers surreptitiously. My father didn’t notice, but I fear Marianne did. I saw her smile, slyly, across the table from me, and I dropped my eyes. It was not more than a moment before I felt her toe, free of its shoe, slip under the hem of my dress to brush my ankle. Startled, I sipped my tea to hide my surprise. Her toes moved up my calf and down, stroking my foot, all right in front of my father.
I focused on my bread and cheese, trying to ignore the effect she was having on me.
“My dear,” she murmured, “are you well?”
I could feel my cheeks burning, my heart raced in my chest.
“I don’t know,” I gasped, staring at the table-top, afraid to look up at either of them. Could my father tell, I wondered? Could he see how his wife lured me towards temptation, even as she played the concerned matron?
“Shall I send for a physician?” he asked me. Indeed, I must have looked truly distressed for him to ask such a thing so quickly.
“No, no,” I replied. “I am not so poorly as all that.” I cast about, frantically, for a reason to explain my torment. I could not tell him that his wife’s wanton ways were having the very effect she so clearly desired. “I am a – a little faint,” I stammered. “That is all. I must— please – excuse me!” I rose, and hurried from the room, my father calling after me, in concern.
Our estate boasts a small library and it was there, and not to my chambers, that I fled. My father valued learning. Because of that and, perhaps, also because of his continuing lack of sons, he had seen to it that I was educated by a theologian he knew. My tutor was of a liberal turn of mind, and I had read many of the great works of literature and philosophy. But it was not to them that I turned. Instead, I sought out the holy scriptures, and the very passage I had spoken to Marianne. I needed to be sure.
There were a thousand reasons for why I should never have done what I did, not the least of which concerned the committing of adultery and the dishonouring of one’s parents… However, Marianne was not technically my mother and, in any case, the honour she desired did not appear to be the sort described in the bible. I needed to know that what I had done – what, I confess, I craved to do again – would not condemn me to worse torments than those Marianne seemed bend upon inflicting.
I admit, I was uncertain, then, that there could be a worse torture than to have to turn away from a caress so freely offered and so desperately desired.
At last, I found what I sought:
You shall not lie with a male as with a woman; it is an abomination. You shall not have sexual relations with any animal and defile yourself with it, nor shall any woman giver herself to an animal to have sexual relations with it: it is perversion.
I breathed a sigh of relief. It was true, then. I would not burn – anymore than I already did – for my desires.
It was then that I heard the gentle tread of footsteps in the hall. Quickly, I turned to the Psalms, for I could always say that the verses calmed me. Indeed, at times they did.
“You were certainly in a hurry,” said an amused voice from the doorway.
Marianne.
“You cannot pretend you do not know why,” I replied, hotly, refusing to turn.
I heard her footsteps draw closer. She stopped behind me, close enough for me to feel the heat from her hands before they settled on my shoulders.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” she asked, quietly.
When I didn’t answer, she leaned over my shoulder, her cheek brushing mine, to see what I had read.
“’My lord is…’?” she read. She lifted a hand from my shoulder to turn the fragile pages. “Why don’t you read this one?” she suggested, touching her fingers to a verse. I didn’t have to look to guess which one she meant. “Read it aloud?” she murmured, her lips just touching my ear.
I turned my attention to the page, or tried to. It is, I have discovered, very difficult to concentrate on a piece of text when one’s own heartbeat is thunder in one’s ears. None the less, I read, faltering, whispering the words on the page.
“You have ravished my heart, my sister, my bride, you have ravished my heart with a glance of your eyes…” As I read, she stroked my hair, my skin, until I was trembling, stumbling over the words. “I come to m-my garden, my sister, my bride; I-I gather my myrrh with my spice…” She moved lower, tracing the edge of my bodice, and I gasped for breath. She slipped her fingers inside, teasing my nipple, and I whimpered, closing my eyes. I could feel my pulse beating between my legs.
“Keep going,” she whispered, hot breath on my skin. Her other hand came around me, sliding over my thighs, my belly. My hips moved of their own accord, my legs parting under my skirts. “Tell me more,” she murmured, stroking me, teasing me, with agonizing slowness.
“I, I arose to open to my beloved,” I panted. I could feel my own wetness soaking the linen where she touched me through the fabric. “Mmy – oh, god – my hands dripped with myrrh, my f-fingers with liquid m— Oh! God, Marianne,please!” I was begging her now, pleading for her release. I needed her to finish me, and we both knew it.
But she smoothed my skirts, withdrew her fingers from my bodice.
“Not here,” she murmured, cupping my breasts. “Come to my garden, my sister, my bride.”
She left me then, shaking and panting with unspent desire, knowing that I would follow her under the roses again.
*****
Please help.
What needs fixing, and how do you suggest that I fix it?
What is working, and why?
Comments, questions, (outrageou flattery), and suggestions are all eagerly sought. :-)
Part I
Part II
The Rose and the Glass
I dressed myself in a simple linen gown, blue-grey, with no need for complicated pocket hoops or difficult lacing. The bodice was cut very low at the front – a day ago, I would have felt daring and grown up, wearing such a thing. Now I felt overexposed. I tucked a kerchief around my shoulders, covering myself at least a bit more modestly.
Breakfast, itself, was an informal affair of fruit and bread, cheese and sausages. I nibbled a pear, sucking the juice off my fingers surreptitiously. My father didn’t notice, but I fear Marianne did. I saw her smile, slyly, across the table from me, and I dropped my eyes. It was not more than a moment before I felt her toe, free of its shoe, slip under the hem of my dress to brush my ankle. Startled, I sipped my tea to hide my surprise. Her toes moved up my calf and down, stroking my foot, all right in front of my father.
I focused on my bread and cheese, trying to ignore the effect she was having on me.
“My dear,” she murmured, “are you well?”
I could feel my cheeks burning, my heart raced in my chest.
“I don’t know,” I gasped, staring at the table-top, afraid to look up at either of them. Could my father tell, I wondered? Could he see how his wife lured me towards temptation, even as she played the concerned matron?
“Shall I send for a physician?” he asked me. Indeed, I must have looked truly distressed for him to ask such a thing so quickly.
“No, no,” I replied. “I am not so poorly as all that.” I cast about, frantically, for a reason to explain my torment. I could not tell him that his wife’s wanton ways were having the very effect she so clearly desired. “I am a – a little faint,” I stammered. “That is all. I must— please – excuse me!” I rose, and hurried from the room, my father calling after me, in concern.
Our estate boasts a small library and it was there, and not to my chambers, that I fled. My father valued learning. Because of that and, perhaps, also because of his continuing lack of sons, he had seen to it that I was educated by a theologian he knew. My tutor was of a liberal turn of mind, and I had read many of the great works of literature and philosophy. But it was not to them that I turned. Instead, I sought out the holy scriptures, and the very passage I had spoken to Marianne. I needed to be sure.
There were a thousand reasons for why I should never have done what I did, not the least of which concerned the committing of adultery and the dishonouring of one’s parents… However, Marianne was not technically my mother and, in any case, the honour she desired did not appear to be the sort described in the bible. I needed to know that what I had done – what, I confess, I craved to do again – would not condemn me to worse torments than those Marianne seemed bend upon inflicting.
I admit, I was uncertain, then, that there could be a worse torture than to have to turn away from a caress so freely offered and so desperately desired.
At last, I found what I sought:
You shall not lie with a male as with a woman; it is an abomination. You shall not have sexual relations with any animal and defile yourself with it, nor shall any woman giver herself to an animal to have sexual relations with it: it is perversion.
I breathed a sigh of relief. It was true, then. I would not burn – anymore than I already did – for my desires.
It was then that I heard the gentle tread of footsteps in the hall. Quickly, I turned to the Psalms, for I could always say that the verses calmed me. Indeed, at times they did.
“You were certainly in a hurry,” said an amused voice from the doorway.
Marianne.
“You cannot pretend you do not know why,” I replied, hotly, refusing to turn.
I heard her footsteps draw closer. She stopped behind me, close enough for me to feel the heat from her hands before they settled on my shoulders.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” she asked, quietly.
When I didn’t answer, she leaned over my shoulder, her cheek brushing mine, to see what I had read.
“’My lord is…’?” she read. She lifted a hand from my shoulder to turn the fragile pages. “Why don’t you read this one?” she suggested, touching her fingers to a verse. I didn’t have to look to guess which one she meant. “Read it aloud?” she murmured, her lips just touching my ear.
I turned my attention to the page, or tried to. It is, I have discovered, very difficult to concentrate on a piece of text when one’s own heartbeat is thunder in one’s ears. None the less, I read, faltering, whispering the words on the page.
“You have ravished my heart, my sister, my bride, you have ravished my heart with a glance of your eyes…” As I read, she stroked my hair, my skin, until I was trembling, stumbling over the words. “I come to m-my garden, my sister, my bride; I-I gather my myrrh with my spice…” She moved lower, tracing the edge of my bodice, and I gasped for breath. She slipped her fingers inside, teasing my nipple, and I whimpered, closing my eyes. I could feel my pulse beating between my legs.
“Keep going,” she whispered, hot breath on my skin. Her other hand came around me, sliding over my thighs, my belly. My hips moved of their own accord, my legs parting under my skirts. “Tell me more,” she murmured, stroking me, teasing me, with agonizing slowness.
“I, I arose to open to my beloved,” I panted. I could feel my own wetness soaking the linen where she touched me through the fabric. “Mmy – oh, god – my hands dripped with myrrh, my f-fingers with liquid m— Oh! God, Marianne,please!” I was begging her now, pleading for her release. I needed her to finish me, and we both knew it.
But she smoothed my skirts, withdrew her fingers from my bodice.
“Not here,” she murmured, cupping my breasts. “Come to my garden, my sister, my bride.”
She left me then, shaking and panting with unspent desire, knowing that I would follow her under the roses again.
*****
Please help.
What needs fixing, and how do you suggest that I fix it?
What is working, and why?
Comments, questions, (outrageou flattery), and suggestions are all eagerly sought. :-)