sneaker
03-06-2008, 5:12 AM
As some of you will know, I write stories and novels with Susan Strict. Some of the stories in the "collections" are mine, although generally we work on most of it together (she writes, I suggest edits). Anyway, here's a short (new) one of my own, inspired by a lady who frequently visits collarme.com. I hope you enjoy it.
For anyone not familiar with the Romany language, a "mulo" is a ghost or spirit, and "mahrime" means bad or evil.
She smiled.
It was a smile of satisfaction not of happiness, although she was happy. There was a warm glow deep within her, a glow that had just the tingle of excitement curling around its edges.
It was a perfect night for it. It was warm, and here in the graveyard it was still and quiet even though above her the clouds raced across the sky obscuring the crescent moon intermittently. Far in the distance there was the occasional flash and rumble of thunder, now closer, now further away.
She wondered whether he would turn up. It was of no great importance if he did not. The night was enough. It would soon be midnight. She could feel the mulo around her, and yet they were not mahrime; not to her.
She turned, her long, black dress swirling around her as though it too was one of the mulo hugging, caressing and encouraging her. It was tight around her waist, flaring from her hips in many layers of material that had a crisp, sensual feel as they brushed against her legs when she moved. The top of the dress held her firmly with no need of any undergarment, flowing down her arms in a fine, loose web into tighter bands around her wrists as though it had ensnared her and was now seeking its next victim.
He was there, a young man very much younger than she was and very much younger than she had expected. It did not matter. Even from a distance in the darkness there was an innocence about him she sensed more than saw, and a nervousness that contrasted with the calm that filled her.
"Come," she said, holding out a hand to him.
He came towards her, taking her hand in his. He went to kiss her and put his arm around her, but immediately she raised her arm warningly.
"No," she said. "Not yet. Not yet."
They walked, hand in hand and with no particular direction or purpose. She guided him between the gravestones without a word, with no more than a press of her fingers on his hand.
Several times he began to speak, to ask more about her or to tell her about himself.
"Quiet," she said softly each time he opened his mouth. "No need for words. Enjoy the night."
Midnight was approaching. She had no need to check the time. She could feel it. She stopped walking and turned to him, taking his other hand in hers but keeping him at a distance from her by no more than the pressure of her hands on his.
"Undress," she said quietly, releasing his hands with a slight push that told him as clearly as any words he was to move away from her as he took off his clothes.
He obeyed without question, and without taking his eyes off her. She stood motionless, facing him, upright and silhouetted against the light from the silver slip of a moon each time it emerged from behind the racing clouds.
"Lie down," she said.
She had only minutes. Midnight was upon them, and to delay would be disastrous. For a moment, and no more than a moment, her human sexuality and her human indecision took over. He was quite ready for her. She could see that. It was a choice she had only half expected to need to make. The result would be the same whether she took his maleness or whether she knelt astride his face and lowered herself onto him, but it was a choice of human desire and was almost her downfall.
With no more than a few seconds of time left she stood astride him and chose. A breeze, the first since she had entered the graveyard, lifted the edges of her dress as though encouraging her, hurrying her.
Slowly, steadily, she descended onto him, looking not at him but at the dark clouds above her. It was perfect. She had made the correct choice. As his body bucked and writhed she knew that she had achieved her desire, and as her scream of climax rang out across the deserted graveyard many minutes later, she knew that her craft too was at its height.
"You are mine," she said, her voice breathless and heavy.
"I am yours," he confirmed. "I will always be yours."
"I know," she said.
Sneaker's and Susan's Books (http://www.a1adultebooks.com/site.php?id=SusanS&in=778)
For anyone not familiar with the Romany language, a "mulo" is a ghost or spirit, and "mahrime" means bad or evil.
She smiled.
It was a smile of satisfaction not of happiness, although she was happy. There was a warm glow deep within her, a glow that had just the tingle of excitement curling around its edges.
It was a perfect night for it. It was warm, and here in the graveyard it was still and quiet even though above her the clouds raced across the sky obscuring the crescent moon intermittently. Far in the distance there was the occasional flash and rumble of thunder, now closer, now further away.
She wondered whether he would turn up. It was of no great importance if he did not. The night was enough. It would soon be midnight. She could feel the mulo around her, and yet they were not mahrime; not to her.
She turned, her long, black dress swirling around her as though it too was one of the mulo hugging, caressing and encouraging her. It was tight around her waist, flaring from her hips in many layers of material that had a crisp, sensual feel as they brushed against her legs when she moved. The top of the dress held her firmly with no need of any undergarment, flowing down her arms in a fine, loose web into tighter bands around her wrists as though it had ensnared her and was now seeking its next victim.
He was there, a young man very much younger than she was and very much younger than she had expected. It did not matter. Even from a distance in the darkness there was an innocence about him she sensed more than saw, and a nervousness that contrasted with the calm that filled her.
"Come," she said, holding out a hand to him.
He came towards her, taking her hand in his. He went to kiss her and put his arm around her, but immediately she raised her arm warningly.
"No," she said. "Not yet. Not yet."
They walked, hand in hand and with no particular direction or purpose. She guided him between the gravestones without a word, with no more than a press of her fingers on his hand.
Several times he began to speak, to ask more about her or to tell her about himself.
"Quiet," she said softly each time he opened his mouth. "No need for words. Enjoy the night."
Midnight was approaching. She had no need to check the time. She could feel it. She stopped walking and turned to him, taking his other hand in hers but keeping him at a distance from her by no more than the pressure of her hands on his.
"Undress," she said quietly, releasing his hands with a slight push that told him as clearly as any words he was to move away from her as he took off his clothes.
He obeyed without question, and without taking his eyes off her. She stood motionless, facing him, upright and silhouetted against the light from the silver slip of a moon each time it emerged from behind the racing clouds.
"Lie down," she said.
She had only minutes. Midnight was upon them, and to delay would be disastrous. For a moment, and no more than a moment, her human sexuality and her human indecision took over. He was quite ready for her. She could see that. It was a choice she had only half expected to need to make. The result would be the same whether she took his maleness or whether she knelt astride his face and lowered herself onto him, but it was a choice of human desire and was almost her downfall.
With no more than a few seconds of time left she stood astride him and chose. A breeze, the first since she had entered the graveyard, lifted the edges of her dress as though encouraging her, hurrying her.
Slowly, steadily, she descended onto him, looking not at him but at the dark clouds above her. It was perfect. She had made the correct choice. As his body bucked and writhed she knew that she had achieved her desire, and as her scream of climax rang out across the deserted graveyard many minutes later, she knew that her craft too was at its height.
"You are mine," she said, her voice breathless and heavy.
"I am yours," he confirmed. "I will always be yours."
"I know," she said.
Sneaker's and Susan's Books (http://www.a1adultebooks.com/site.php?id=SusanS&in=778)