By My Side ... (A Valentine's Day Story) (16 page)

His shoulders gleamed under a
thin sheen of sweat, testament to the temperature of the room which
was designed more for her needs than his. Her eyes were caught by
the light reflected across the panes of muscle, the lines of
strength and suffering across his skin. When had he lost his
clothes? She could not remember in her fascination with his body.
Her eyes were drawn irrevocably lower. His tight breeches had not
hidden the narrowness of his hips, or the long, elegant lines of
his thighs but the almost blindingly white texture of his skin was
breath-taking.

It was not the paleness of a
human unused to the rays of the sun. A pale human's body, even an
albinos, showed the lines of blood vessels, the marks of genetic
imperfections and moles. His did not. The translucence of humanity
was entirely lacking -- his skin was an empty canvas on which a
violent life had painted images of cruelty and pain. And still the
scars held only inhuman beauty.

As did his cock, long and
slightly curved, it rose fully aroused from his hairless groin. She
was not certain if he shaved or if it was an orcish characteristic,
but the skin covering his body was smooth, without even the hint of
hair covering humans. Naked as he was, she had full view of him. It
was breath-taking, frightening and fascinating, to realise how much
his body resembled humanity -- and how much it differed.

"Touch me, Lena." There was a
plea in his voice, a dusky demand covering unexpected
vulnerability. It drew her gaze and whilst her hand reached for
him, smoothed over the skin of his thighs she watched him. At her
first touch his eyes unfocused, his lids closing halfway in
agonised pleasure.

His skin was soft under her
touch, softer than she had expected -- the texture of sun-warmed
silk on a lazy summer day. Her hand smoothed along his thigh,
caressing the hard strands of muscle under the silken cover of his
skin. But they both knew where her hand was travelling to, and they
both held their breath in anticipation. His half-lidded gaze was
fixed on her questing fingers, mesmerised by the knowledge of her
touch. She felt powerful.

Her first touch along the
length of his penis was gossamer soft. It made his body shake. She
felt it against her skin, in the movements of the bed below her as
his shakes transferred themselves to the mattress, she heard it in
the hitch of his breath. And she loved it, loved watching the
emotions flicker over his features, the agonised pleasure, the
violent control barely maintained.

But even that sense of power
she felt was swept aside by the awareness of the soft skin of his
penis in her hand. Little spikes, the myriad of small hooks along
his length, scraped her palm in an erotic caress. She had known
they would be there.

"Will they hurt?" There was no
fear in her at her own question, only curiosity.

"Possibly. A little." His voice
was hushed. It made her smile, though she did not quite know why.
Her fingers closer around his length, felt the pressure of the
wafer-fine hooks against her skin. It was an intriguing sensation,
not painful per se -- just different. A pearl of liquid appeared on
the head. Her finger stroked over it drawing a purr-like growl from
his throat. The drop was clear and viscous, warm as his skin. For a
moment she wanted to taste it, smell it but before she could raise
her hand to her mouth she realised something more intriguing. The
fluid was not just excreted at the slit of his penis but covered
the whole length of him with a thin layer.

Her eyes jumped to his and she
saw the gentle amusement with which he watched her; but she also
saw the tightly controlled need, the urgency of a man being pushed
to his limits. She closed her hand around his penis again, feeling
the liquid heat of lubrication of the silk of his skin, the teasing
scrape of the fine spines. She tested the pressure and stroked once
up and down. His sharp teeth bared in what was close to a snarl but
no sound escaped him.

Reschkar's eyes were fixed on
hers, warning and challenge to equal parts shining through the haze
of passion. She wanted to stroke again, to see how far she could
push him, but before she could repeat the motion, his hand clasped
hers, held her in place. She felt the restrained power in his grip,
in the way he was so careful to hold her without hurting her. His
voice gave no hint of the turmoil in him, its smooth warmth
surrounding her.

"I promise to let you play --
later. Now, I want you to reach for the headboard and hold on. Do
not let go."

There was provocation in the
way she reached up and a healthy dose of playfulness. She liked the
way his eyes sparked as her back arched, her breasts on prominent
display. And there was predatory intent in the way his tongue wet
his lips. It was the intent of a man who knew what he saw was his
to play with. She was more than happy to oblige. All that mattered
was that look in his eyes, that smile, his touch.

When his large hands cupped her
breasts she arched into the touch, the coolness of his skin a
counterpoint in the heated room.

"They are beautiful." No one
who heard his voice when he said it would could have doubted him.
Nor could she when he looked at her and said: "You are
beautiful."

And she was. Here and now she
felt it, saw it in his eyes, knew it because there was only him and
her and truth between them.

His hands were gentle on her
breasts, at first. The rough skin of his work hardened hands a
massage on its own as he stroked lightly across her ribcage, along
the side of her breasts, up to her collar bone and back again. But
with each pass his touch firmed a little more, his nails drawing
lines of pressure along her breasts, between them -- but never
coming close to her aureoles. It was as if he wound a spring with
each cycle, a spring of want and anticipation. Her skin began to
tingle where he did not touch, and burn. She felt her heartbeat
under his hands, in her ears, its speed seeming to urge him on.

Instead, those half-lidded eyes
grinned at her and he sat back, the weight of his body resting on
her upper thighs, immobilising her, as his hands stroked down her
flanks, their thumbs playing over her prominent hipbones. At the
fleeting stroke her hands cramped around the wooden slats in the
headboard, her ability to hold still for him already taxed. Was she
the same woman who had only an hour ago claimed she would be able
to hold still for him even without the outward restraints? She
almost wished he would bind her again though for the moment the
insubstantial bindings of his will were still enough. For the
moment, she was glad of that. Her own restraint lay in tatters.

"Please." His knuckles grazed
along the dip below the bone, along the curve of her waist but it
was not what she wanted. She wanted his hands, his lips on her
breasts, on her mouth. She wanted him in her, wanted to belong to
him. But the only word that made it past her lips was another
"Please". She could not ask for more, what she wanted mattered
little in this moment, not even to herself. All that mattered now
was to be enough for him.

"I like that sound. I think I
will like it even more when you scream it for me."

It was his words just as much
as his hands slipping over her breasts again, kneading them with
nothing of his earlier restraint, which bowed her back. Everything
crashed, the sudden fulfilment of the need to have her breasts
touched, her skin stroked with possession, was too much for her.
The rudderless floating of her mind became a maelstrom taking over.
She was pushed back into the state of pure sensation she had
entered during the punishment. When he rolled her nipples between
his fingers she felt it like electricity across her whole body,
lines of awareness, not pleasure, not pain but something more,
which reached from her breasts to every nerve ending in her
being.

Elena could feel the tension in
her aureoles, the bunched nerves screaming. She had never thought
it possible for her body to actually feel her nipples, but now they
were not anymore an extension of her chest, but had an awareness of
their own. She could have wept when his lips bend to her, his mouth
opening to engulf them with the heat of his breath. His tongue was
rough and soft at the same time as it lapped lazily against her
breasts. Heat and pressure, pleasure that did not satisfy but
aggravated. Her instincts were to arch into him, to force the
contact to deepen, to demand, but his hands were firm on her,
keeping her on the bed.

She only realised she had let
go of the headboard when his mouth lifted from her breast and he
snarled:

"Hands!"

Her fingers itched so desperate
was she to touch him. But there was no molecule in her which could
resist his order. Before he had even finished the word, her fingers
were already entwined over the slats of the headboard again, her
grip almost violent.

He held her gaze, his breath
stroking over the moist skin of her nipple making her skin prickle
with thousands of unseen little needles, sensitised as she was to
his touch. She wanted to feel the warmth of his mouth against her
skin again, wanted the soothing pressure of his tongue over the
burn of her need. He did not give it to her, waiting, the second
stretching, imprinting on her at a primal level the knowledge that
whatever would happen was his choice, his will alone. She sank into
that knowledge, a mental calm spreading into her, around her. Only
then did his lips return, their caress a reward.

He took his time, first with
one, then with the other breast, suckling gently, swirling his
mobile tongue over the hard pearls where so many nerve-endings
waited for his touch. When his mouth returned to the nipple he had
begun with, actions which had been arousing turned into slow
torture. He kept on teasing her nipple into painful hardness, just
to abandon it for the other, an interminable alternation of
sensation and cessation. It was impossible to remain still, all she
could do was hold onto the headboard with all her might, while her
body writhed on the sheets under him, the pain from her back
interweaving with the pleasure of his lips.

Then, without warning, his
fingers caught her nipples, rolled them, tightening their grip,
pinching and holding. His mouth caught her screams as he plundered
and took, drank her whimpers when he let go and the blood returned
to her nipples. For a moment, she thought she would come, her body
tightening under the onslaught of orgasm, she felt her own moisture
pooling, her body wet enough to allow for trickles to tease her own
skin, but without any stimulation at her vagina she could not take
that last step. And he was not giving her the touch she needed so
acutely.

She tried to raise her hips
searching for some friction, tried to rub her own thighs together.
His weight on her, his knees holding her absolutely still, kept her
even from the smallest movement and without the stimulation she so
wanted. The only action open to feed from his lips, take all he was
giving her, the sensation all-consuming through the need riding her
body.

He let her, their tongues
duelling, tasting, caressing whilst she hovered on the precipice of
orgasm without ever being able to step over. He took his time,
waiting for her body to retreat just that minute step. That one
step which was enough to stall the hovering orgasm but kept her
body burning with the need to complete, with the demand for
satisfaction. It was near impossible to breathe without the touch
of his mouth by the time his lips left hers to stroke over her
jawbone, along the delicate swirls of her ear, her sensitive
neck.

"You're almost there, little
one. Almost ready."

Elena had no idea what he
meant, did not care for anything but him, her mouth following the
move of his head, trying to recapture his taste. His chuckle
vibrated along her body. He captured her mouth in a deep kiss, too
short to satisfy her but his grin said that this would be all she
would be getting for the moment. Only when his hands unwound her
arms from his neck did she realise she had been holding onto him,
had anchored herself against him against the battering pleasure.
There was an evil glimmer in the yellow depth of his eyes as he
wrapped her fingers around the headboard again, the pressure gentle
but the intent more than clear. Right, her hands were supposed to
remain there.

She could not help glancing up,
seeing his large hands wrapped around hers in an erotic parody of
restraints. His teeth nipped at her exposed chin, then her throat.
A reprimand? Or just for his pleasure? She did not know and cared
even less. All that mattered was that he wanted to do it.

His mouth was hotter even than
her burning body, his tongue painting a line of pleasure along her
collar bone, his teeth interspersing the caress with little nips.
But he was not done, had a definite goal in mind. Slow,
open-mouthed kisses travelled across her sternum, between her
breasts, careful to avoid touching the mounts that had become so
sensitive that his lips would now have pushed her past pleasure
into pain. He seemed to develop a strange fascination with her
belly button, his prehensile tongue ticking the corners, delving in
before biting the soft flesh of her belly. She saw the predator in
him then -- and it aroused her only further.

Elena was too replete, too lost
in his touch to make any move. Her body was burning with need, with
wanting, but her muscles rested utterly relaxed under his hands.
His firm hands found no resistance as they spanned her thighs and
opened them for his pleasure. He spread her wide with his hands,
with his body as he came to rest between her legs, his shoulders
broad enough to leave her fully exposed to him, to his mouth.

And then he waited, his eyes
holding her gaze over the length of her body, over her heaving
chest which seemed barely able to contain her pounding heart
anymore. There did not seem to be enough oxygen in the room, had
not been since his lips left hers. She could not fight it, could
not fight him. Her eyes closed and her head fell back onto the
mattress in defeat. It was then that the heat of his mouth engulfed
her clitoris.