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Wine and Memories
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Wine and Memories
"That crack in the ceiling has to be the single most irritating
feature of this room." The soft words fall flatly in the deep gloom,
lit only by the shuttered light of the full moon hanging annoyingly
outside the window. It is as if it mocks me this night, mocks my
inability to find oblivion in the sweet peace of slumber.
Rolling over irritably, eyes snapping open as if of their own
accord. I look about this place I've begun, tentatively, to call "home."
It looks like a home, with knick-knacks and various bits of this and
that strewn around. When I came up here tonight, I was too tired to
pick up after myself. Soft laughter is absorbed by the walls, but it
doesn't sound very sincere, even to me. I never was a very efficient
domestic.
Sighing in resignation, I surrender to the inevitable and sit up,
the large silk shirt rearranging itself rather obligingly. The brush of
it over my nipples causes me to pause briefly, flashing back to another
night, another silk...
"... look very lovely, Elena," his voice, haunting, ethereal. "So
sensual in that shift." Strong arms surrounding me from behind,
caressing my breasts through the fine fabric, leaning back into the
hypnotic warmth of him as he nuzzles my hair...
Curse it.
How did it get so warm in here? I arise from the bed, trying to
ignore the feel of the silk teasing my thighs as I move to the shutters
and open them, hoping for a draught of fresh air to cool my fevered
body.
Just less hot, not "cool" at all. Damn.
With nothing better to do, I watch the fullness of the moon as it
descends over the sleeping city. Leaning against the sill,
remembering...
"...'Turo, its incredible," I breathed in fascination as he brought
forth the stunning white opal from its velvety case. His expression was
bland enough, but I could see the tiny traces of pleasure as he turned
me about to fasten it around my neck. We faced the mirror, his firm
hands on my shoulders, his warm, moist mouth on my neck. He looked at
me - fierce, possessive, lusting - and I nearly swooned in response...
so overwhelming was he, as if he took all the air out of the room...
Jerking myself back to reality sharply, cruelly. He's been dead for
years, girl. Get a hold of yourself.
The grief forms a knot in my throat once more. Damn, damn, damn.
I'll never get to sleep at this rate.
I turn towards my cabinet with an almost drunken lurch. Fetching
the key from my cloak, fumbling with the lock in uncharacteristic haste.
The opening of the door releases the musty scent of dried herbs and
essential oilss, bitter and sweet. Like life. Bitter and sweet. Or
death.
Pausing for a moment to consider, what best to mix for a sleeping
draught? I can't take anymore of this tonight, Arturo, you haunt me
relentlessly. Something strong, so that even the dreams of you cannot
arouse me...
I know what I want. This mixture, diffused in hot wine and left to
steep, will relax the body and the mind. It should permit sleep within
a half hour of ingestion. But - the side effects....? Relaxation of
inhibitions (accentuated by the alcohol in the wine), increased
sensitivity of the skin...
Gods above and below, I'm so tired. I take the small bag and set a
cup over the brazier, splashing wine into it carelessly, impatiently
waiting for it to boil, getting lost once more in memories...
...He grasped the goblet, rubies and sapphires winking at me in the
candlelight, promising pleasures heretofore unknown. I cannot take the
goblet he offers; my hands and feet are bound fast with silk and steel,
spread-eagled for his pleasure. He has tormented me for an eternity,
bringing my body to the brink over and over again, only to withdraw,
reveling in the agonizing delight he gives me.
"Drink, cara mia," he whispered. "Drink this so that I may take you
even higher." His voice entranced me, my body sung in tune with his
desires, I could no more have refused than I could have refused to
breathe... and the bittersweet flavor of the wine took control of my
senses as he wed me to him body and soul...
The almost acrid fumes of the boiling wine bring me back once more,
hands trembling in unfulfilled lust, lips tingling and numb, breasts
achingly erect. The telltale warmth and moisture between my legs serve
only to aggravate me - my body is speaking quite loudly, wanting a
caress it can no longer have, the touch of a dead man.
The fine dust glimmers faintly in the light of the moon as the herbs
settle into the steaming cup. Just a few more minutes, I think to
myself. A few more minutes and it will be ready... Heavy, laborious
breathing marks the rising tide of desire within, making every nerve
ending cry out in unrelieved agony. Gods. Ah, Gods...
Blowing on the liquid, I carry it to my bed, slipping under the
blankets and sipping, carefully. Bitter and sweet. Like life... and
death.
Half the cup gone and already I'm drowsy. Good. A few hours sleep
never hurt anyone. People sleep all the time, Elena. You should give
it a try...
"... give it a try," he said, smiling wickedly. The sunlight
brought out the hints of auburn in his dark hair, his eyes glinted
mischieviously, crinkled at the corners. He was holding a length of
chain suspended between his hands, fine golden chain. On each end was a
tiny, adjustable loop of fine suede cord.
"Arturo," and I was laughing, surely he couldn't be serious, "are
you really suggesting I should attach that... that thing to my breasts?
It looks painful!"
And he moved towards me, a single step. The grace and beauty of him
took my breath away, my heart ached for him, I'd do anything for him...
I opened my blouse, and he gently took it from me. My nipples stood
up in the cooler air of the forest, deprived of the warmth of the
garment. He bent over, kissing one, running his tongue around and
around it, suckling it, nibbling it, the errant breeze helping his cause
as it hardened even more... my head leaned back in abandon, surrendering
myself instantly to his will - then I felt the firm tug of something
tightening on my nipple. I looked at him in lust and confusion as he
said, "That, cara mia, is *one*..." my knees nearly buckled, it wasn't
pain, but it was; it wasn't pleasure, but it was. Then he attached the
other, and I fell to my knees, in thrall to the passion stirred in my
body...
He took me there, repeatedly. I gave him all he wanted and more.
In this spacious room in an inn very far away from that time and
place, I move my hand over my tender breasts, sliding it down, down over
disarranged silk and flesh, to the cleft of my legs, recalling the
strength and warmth of his body in mine. I can so clearly see his eyes
gleam in fascination and carnality as I pleasure myself for him,
bringing myself to orgasm with the pressure of my hand as he watches,
stroking his shaft almost absently, grabbing my hair in the midst of my
climax to thrust his member into my mouth...
There is no help for it. It wasn't sleep I sought this night, I
think in some distant corner of my mind. It was him, the passion and
love I shared with him so long ago... I hear myself moaning as if from
afar, and I'm powerless to stop myself. My body controls, its passion
and lust and need of a man long dead rule me utterly.
Approaching the pinnacle alone, feeling the inevitable pulse of
desire bring me to the edge, my blood pounds in my ears and temples,
breath coming in ragged gasps. I'm nearly there, ah... Arturo...
gods...
The door swings open silently, golden light from a single candle
clashing raucously with the cool silver light of the moon. His hair is
mussed, his eyes wide in the gloom. In my confusion, I whisper the name
of he whom I want so desperately... "Arturo...?"
The door opens wider, disappointment stepping through. "Umm, no...
Zephyr, it's Dorin. Um... are you alright? I heard you moaning - I
thought - well, that is, I wondered... Are you unwell?"
In utter perplexity, I can only stare at him. Dorin. A kind man, a
good man. Strong, hearty... male. My body and soul astound me with the
depth of bottomless need, brought to focus on this generous man who has
given me shelter in his inn. I don't know what it is that he sees when
he looks at me now, but whatever it is, he moves inside and closes the
door, once more locking it. He sets the candle on the table, eyes never
leaving my face, gazing at me as if he's never seen me before.
Perhaps he hasn't, not like this. He approaches the side of the bed
silently, concern and the beginnings of desire etched in the lines of
his face. He starts to sit on the edge of the bed. He doesn't make it.
In a single lunge, I'm on him. With a warrior's instinct he rolls
with me, startlement giving way to surprised pleasure as I plant my lips
on his. Gods. I want to faint, I want to drown in his kiss. My mouth
moves on his hungrily and his response, though perhaps not as skilled as
some others, is water to a woman who was dying of thirst.
He breaks the kiss momentarily, my mouth moves across his stubbled
cheek and down his neck. "Zephyr," he whispers huskily, "I... ah,
Gods... Zephyr..." I plant my hand gently on his mouth. I don't want
talk, don't need it. He kisses my hand, using his own to hold my palm
to his lips and tongue and teeth, his other hand sliding up inside my
shirt - thigh, hip, waist... breast. The soft moaning from me turns to
a throaty groan as he caresses it, rolling the nipple between a
calloused thumb and forefinger with increasing pressure.
Astraddle him as I am, I feel the length of his manhood, the aroused
erectness of it between us like a sword. I'm writhing atop him like a
woman possessed and the motion of it feeds the fire of his excitement.
My mouth is once more on his, his hand still upon my breast and the
other cups my buttock firmly, massaging it and increasing the pressure
of the motion against his member.
So strong, the want and need in the room. When his hand leaves my
breast I throw back my head, growling and panting like an animal. To my
amazement, his hands encircle my waist, lifting me bodily, positioning
his shaft at the hot, drenched entrance of my mound. His gaze pierces
me just moments before his manhood does, pushing me down with ease until
he is well-sheathed within me.
My womanhood grasps him tightly, we're both nearly lost to reason at
the intensity of the sensations. His hands once more roam over my chest
and sides while my own grasp the hairs on his chest, entwining them in
aching fingers. The most subtle movement is enough to evoke gasping
moans from us both, he's as close to the edge as I am...
Gods... I'm there - back arches, eyes defocus, hands clench, throat
constricts and I begin moving on him in wild sexual abandon. He growls,
jaws clenched in a massive effort as the waves of orgasm wash over me
again and again. When I fall forward, eyes wide and staring, he rolls
us over and begins thrusting into me, pounding hard and fast and I can
only murmur, "yes... yesssss...."
With a tortured groan, a massive thrust, he spurts his seed deep
within me, again and again and again. The intensity of his climax
catches me, and I'm once more swept away in the tide of pleasure,
carried along in the strength and power of his delight.
His arms are around me, and mine around him, hands caressing, mouths
murmuring soft intimacies made nearly incoherent in relief. It's only
when his fingers gently wipe my cheek that I realize I'm crying. His
fingers touch my lips and the taste of the tears is bitter and sweet.
-*-
An unknown time later, after the moon has set and the candle
guttered, we're still holding one another. I don't know what he sees in
my face, but in his is mirrored his affection, bemusement... and perhaps
a little embarassment. He doesn't say anything, nor do I. Neither of
us knows what the day holds in store, but regardless, it's bound to be a
little brighter.
His breathing is the slow evenness of sleep. I feel that most
elusive of lovers finally tugging at my own eyelids, and I smile a
little. He stirs, rolling over and catching my waist, cradling me
tenderly. His arm is brown and hairy and muscular, so unlike Arturo's
slim litheness. Remembering him now is bittersweet. Like the wine.
Like the tears.
Like life and death.
Like the slumber which finally claims me.
... © Thalia, 1993. All Rights Reserved.
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