05-13-2009, 02:24 AM
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500+
The woad marked woman looked up at him, her breathing quiet but quick, her heart pounding with his mere thought. His eyes burned her, his touch burned her, and it was a pleasant burning and one that she had never experienced before. While the other nights of lovemaking had exhibited the quiet fires of lust, those fires seemed subdued and doused in comparison to this. His experience or inexperience were irrelevant—it was only he that mattered. As he kissed her she closed her eyes, this time allowing him to explore her and allowing her touch alone to experience. She breathed in deeply as he explored that hot, sensitive area, but she was unwilling to break that kiss. The muscles of her leg tightened involuntarily with both surprise and desire as her legs shifted along him in response. Her hands slid down to his shoulders, her fingers gripping him as if in need to suppress the delight that threatened to overwhelm her, a soft moan sounding in her throat.
While Onus caressed the moistness of her femininity, her fingers and hands explored the planes of his muscled body, pausing to tenderly explore the scars that lay dormant beneath his fur. There were many insignificant marks upon his body, innumerable for the years of experienced fighting, none save for the one upon his neck and shoulder to tell of defeat. While the carelessness of her own battles lay prominent upon her body, some more recent than others, there were none that those hands could find. It was the efficiency of this killer that was told through her hands, that silent emotion akin to rage and yet different that drove him to do what he must, to complete his purpose. That curious touch came finally upon that tear, her touch gentle as she traced the stitching and the line of his neck as if to dust away the pain that had kept the male from his duty.
Occasional moans escaped her, and when she could wait no longer, when her desire for his body was insurmountable, her head fell back to stone, breaking the kiss. The last moan had ended in a whine, a soft, high pitched sound that disappeared into the darkness, fading like a whispered secret, a whispered request. For a moment the woman’s breath trembled in the air, expecting the pain that still characterized the initial penetration. The black warrior invited the male as she slightly shifted her position. The woman’s body relaxed beneath him as her legs parted further, her knees bent as they left the male’s side, allowing him room and allowing for that undeniable penetration. In that moment, only a single breath was allowed time to pass, the air trembling with the heavy beating of her heart. It was a brief moment and a subtle change, but such subtleties were not lost upon warriors. And she invited the male to partake in this unique sparring that ended in that ‘little death’, as the French say it, for Love is a kind of Warfare.
500+
The woad marked woman looked up at him, her breathing quiet but quick, her heart pounding with his mere thought. His eyes burned her, his touch burned her, and it was a pleasant burning and one that she had never experienced before. While the other nights of lovemaking had exhibited the quiet fires of lust, those fires seemed subdued and doused in comparison to this. His experience or inexperience were irrelevant—it was only he that mattered. As he kissed her she closed her eyes, this time allowing him to explore her and allowing her touch alone to experience. She breathed in deeply as he explored that hot, sensitive area, but she was unwilling to break that kiss. The muscles of her leg tightened involuntarily with both surprise and desire as her legs shifted along him in response. Her hands slid down to his shoulders, her fingers gripping him as if in need to suppress the delight that threatened to overwhelm her, a soft moan sounding in her throat.
While Onus caressed the moistness of her femininity, her fingers and hands explored the planes of his muscled body, pausing to tenderly explore the scars that lay dormant beneath his fur. There were many insignificant marks upon his body, innumerable for the years of experienced fighting, none save for the one upon his neck and shoulder to tell of defeat. While the carelessness of her own battles lay prominent upon her body, some more recent than others, there were none that those hands could find. It was the efficiency of this killer that was told through her hands, that silent emotion akin to rage and yet different that drove him to do what he must, to complete his purpose. That curious touch came finally upon that tear, her touch gentle as she traced the stitching and the line of his neck as if to dust away the pain that had kept the male from his duty.
Occasional moans escaped her, and when she could wait no longer, when her desire for his body was insurmountable, her head fell back to stone, breaking the kiss. The last moan had ended in a whine, a soft, high pitched sound that disappeared into the darkness, fading like a whispered secret, a whispered request. For a moment the woman’s breath trembled in the air, expecting the pain that still characterized the initial penetration. The black warrior invited the male as she slightly shifted her position. The woman’s body relaxed beneath him as her legs parted further, her knees bent as they left the male’s side, allowing him room and allowing for that undeniable penetration. In that moment, only a single breath was allowed time to pass, the air trembling with the heavy beating of her heart. It was a brief moment and a subtle change, but such subtleties were not lost upon warriors. And she invited the male to partake in this unique sparring that ended in that ‘little death’, as the French say it, for Love is a kind of Warfare.