by Violet Blue
It was a bit of a commute to the apartment she and Sal shared. It was one of those unbelievable new places, across the river. She’d never have been able to afford anything like this, but together they were doing all right. Actually, Sal paid the lion’s share of the rent, but as he kept saying, she’d be supporting him once she completed her degree and started charging a couple hundred bucks an hour as a sex therapist.
When they’d been apartment hunting, it had been the bathroom that had sold her on the place. It was big and luxurious. Her last apartment’s bathroom had been out in the hall. It wasn’t like she’d had to share it, or anything. It was just that you had to actually go out the front door of the apartment and open another door to get into the bathroom. It wasn’t all that uncommon, and she’d gotten used to it, but it was so small you could barely turn around, and there was only the one tiny window in the shower and that faced a brick wall.
This bathroom had both a soaking tub and a glass-enclosed shower. It had a vanity area with two sinks, beautiful modern fixtures and opulent tiling. There was a big, picture window over the tub, so you could look out over the river, toward Manhattan, while you were soaking. The room was light and airy and she would have spent all her time in it if Sal had let her.
The selling point for him, of course, had been the kitchen. And quite a kitchen it was. It was big and open to the living space. It had a Bosch dishwasher and a Kitchen Aid refrigerator and a Viking range. It seemed he had the same affinity to the kitchen that she had to the bathroom and she practically had to drag him out of it more often than not. The apartment was a wet dream come true. Heaven forbid they should ever break up. She didn’t think she could go back to living in some hole on East 83rd Street again.
When she got to the building’s entrance she checked her watch. It was just six o’clock. Sal should be home by now and waiting for her. Taking the elevator up to the fifteenth floor, she very quietly let herself into their apartment. She made her way into the bedroom and took her shoes off. Leaving her jeans and sweatshirt in a pile on the floor, she quietly entered the dark bathroom, wearing only a pair of black satin tanga panties.
Sal had closed the blinds to block out any ambient city light and had turned off the main bathroom light. The only light in the room was in the ceiling of the glassed-in shower itself, and it was focused on the naked body presently occupying that space.
Lauren took a seat on the towel bench against the far wall, facing the shower. Once she had closed the door, the bench, and most of the bathroom, became cloaked in shadows. She leaned against the wall and spread her legs.
The light in the shower’s ceiling was like a spotlight on Sal’s naked body. She watched as he ran his soapy hands down his chest. He circled his nipples and pinched them slowly. As the water sluiced down, straightening the hair on his chest, Lauren watched his cock react to the attention he’d paid to his nipples.
He added more soap to his big hands and leaned his head back, closing his eyes. He soaped his neck, bringing his hands back down his chest again, this time circling and teasing his nipples with his fingers. His hands continued on to his navel, but instead of wrapping around his cock, they circled toward the back of his body and his ass.
Lauren’s breath caught. She let one hand snake down, inside her panties, while the other teased one of her nipples. Sal turned around, facing away from her, and bent over, giving her a good view of his ass. As he spread his legs, she could see his full balls, hanging low between his legs. With more soap on his hands, he soaped the globes of his bottom and slipped them into the crack. While he ran them slowly up and down the split between his cheeks, Lauren ran her index finger up and down the now-slick folds of her own sex.
He inserted his hands into the crack and pulled his asscheeks apart, exposing his opening to her. She heard him groan. She was groaning quietly too as she dipped a finger inside herself while holding her labia open. She watched the water run down between his asscheeks while he slowly stroked and rimmed his hole with a finger before letting go of his flesh. His hands disappeared for a moment, returning again freshly soaped. This time he reached between his legs and soaped his balls, slowly stroking and squeezing them while the soapsuds ran down his legs.
Lauren moved her foot from the floor and brought it up onto the bench, next to her bottom, while she bent her knee away from her body, opening herself wider. By the time he turned around to face her again, she had two fingers buried to the second knuckle. Seeing the state of his hard cock, she groaned softly and began to pump her fingers in and out of her wet pussy, grazing her clit just enough to bring her to the edge of coming and keep her there.
With soapy hands, Sal wrapped a fist around his cock while his other hand automatically went for his balls. As he began to slowly stroke his cock, he broke the third wall of the performance and looked directly at Lauren. As their eyes met, a thrill of electricity shot through her brain, directly to her clit. Her fingers stilled and, not letting her eyes lose contact with his, her body bucked out its orgasm.
After it was over, she stripped off her underwear and stood on slightly shaky legs. “Hi, baby, how was your day? Mind if I share that shower with you?”
She slowly advanced on him, the slightly exaggerated sway of her hips driving him crazy. Stepping inside and letting the hot water beat down on her head, she grasped Sal’s erect cock with one hand, and wrapped her other arm around his waist, hugging him to her. “Your turn,” she said. Their mouths met as her thumb brushed lightly over the head of his cock.
STORMING THE CASTLE
Andrea Dale
It still astonished me that they were going to destroy it.
I stood in the twilight, watching the shadows deepen around the crumbling stone walls and dark empty windows of the castle ruins. Through the shattered courtyard archway I could see the first pinpricks of stars, tiny glittering lights against the blue black sky.
At this magical hour, I could believe almost anything. I could imagine a ghostly figure gliding along with a guttering torch, hear the clomp of hooves and jingle of harnesses over where the stables would have been.
The one thing I needed to believe was the only thing I couldn’t: that we’d save Pencraig from the developers.
“Cassidy, come on!” Joe shouted from the car, impatience clear in his voice. “I want to get to the pub before they run out of crumble like they did last night.”
Little could stand between Joe and the demands of his stomach.
I slumped down in the seat as he turned the car around on the rutted excuse for a drive. There was no sense talking; he knew what I was brooding about and he felt the same—he was just more pragmatic about it. We’d been through it again and again over the past three days we’d worked there. Nothing left to say.
Nothing left to do.
The car bounced down the narrow lane toward the main road. I left my window open, breathing in the magnolia-scented, soft summer air.
Maybe Joe was right. Maybe we should give up, let go. Shower off the grime and the weariness of three days of fruitless digging, get a good hot meal (complete with apple-blackberry crumble, which did sound awfully good), write up our archeological report in the morning.
They’d sent us here because they were sure the place had already been picked clean. We were there only as a formality, so that some faceless person could rubber-stamp a piece of paper that would serve as Pencraig’s death knell.
The new owner couldn’t tear down the fortified manor house, but he had plans to develop the area around it: golf course, luxury hotel, the works. The castle itself would be a ruined curiosity—a modern ancient folly, if you will.
I glanced over at Joe, seeing his profile against the flash of headlights on the A-road: a strong, handsome curve of brow and nose and chin. Unbidden tears pricked my eyes.
It wasn’t just about Pencraig that I felt failure.
I let Joe shower first, and as I stepped in he was heading down to order himself a lager and me a cider and to make sure th
ey saved us some crumble. I tried to tell myself I was bone-weary and suffering from low blood sugar, and that after supper I would feel less tragic.
But I also knew I was lying to myself.
I’d met Joe at university when we were both studying archeology. Our mutual interest in our field brought us together, and by the time we’d graduated, we were a couple. We got jobs together with the government and had been living together for six months.
And I was bored, bored, bored.
I loved Joe. That’s what made it so damn hard. I loved him and respected him. We fit well together at work and at home, with similar interests and habits. Everyone thought we were perfect for each other, and I was hard-pressed to come up with a good reason why we weren’t. It was just that the spark was gone.
Frowning, I scrubbed shampoo into my hair (Joe called it pixielike, and he loved ruffling the short dark locks with his fingertips). I was smart enough to know about New Relationship Energy, savvy enough to understand that you wouldn’t have the drive to act like crazed love-monkeys forever.
I just felt like we’d never really been like that.
Sex was pleasurable, sex was good. Joe was attentive, making sure I came at least once before he did. Wackily enough, that might just be the problem. He was so concerned about it, so focused. We never had that wild, abandoned thing that you see in movies: swiping everything off the desk, breaking dishes on the kitchen counter, fucking against the wall with most of your clothes still on because you can’t be bothered to take them off.
God, I was getting horny just thinking about it.
My soapy hands were on my breasts almost before I realized it—small, pert breasts, but I was inordinately pleased with my nipples, large, dark swollen peaks that were wonderfully sensitive. With slick fingers I pinched the buds, feeling the tug all the way down my body, through my belly to my groin.
I couldn’t imagine how women could have their nipples pierced. If they were as sensitive as I was, it must be excruciating. Still, I had a curious fascination with what nipple clips must feel like…. Nothing too sharp, of course…. My fingernails were short by necessity for my job, but I grazed them across my flesh as best I could.
The tremors shook me to my core. I’d forgotten that I could get aroused so quickly. I wanted a lover who could do that to me—and who needed me as fast as I needed him. I didn’t need lather on my hand to slide my fingertips over my clit. I was wet enough down there, thank you very much, not from water but from my own juices.
I propped one foot on the edge of the tub for better access. Tepid water sluiced across my skin—the problem with being the second person to the shower—as I closed my eyes and let my fantasies run free.
A rough lover. Oh, let’s face it, a Tudor lord, home from the War of the Roses, desperate with longing for his lover. The manor house of Pencraig stood on the foundations of earlier fortifications; this lord would have had the money to build that grand structure for his lady love. He took her now, though, without thought to the future; without thought, only with desperate longing.
Stripping her out of her dress, he’d loosen her corset and fill his hands and mouth with her breasts, the pleasure almost as much his as it was hers. He wanted to please her, but he needed to touch her for himself, too.
Undergarments abandoned, he’d fling her onto the bed and feast on her, filling his senses with the taste and smell and feel of her. She wouldn’t be scented with deodorant soap, but neither would care. Her pungent scent, his sweat-salty skin would be part of their desire, mixed with the lavender and rose she used to sweeten her clothes.
Or maybe that was the smell of the expensive spa soap I’d brought with me, my one indulgence when I traveled.
That Tudor lord, he’d gasp and shudder when his lady wrapped slender fingers around his cock, so close to the edge from wanting her that he almost couldn’t contain himself. Gritting his teeth, he’d turn her away from him, and she’d barely have time to clutch the carved headboard before he plowed into her tight heat from behind.
Grasping her hips, he’d fuck her until she screamed and her convulsions sent him to the edge and beyond.
The fanciful vision worked its magic on me, too. My clit jumped and pulsed, and I shoved two fingers inside of myself, coaxing my orgasm to go on just a little longer, oh, yes, just like that.
I staggered out of the shower, knees weak, and threw on clothes: cargo pants, faded Queen T-shirt, no bra necessary. I swiped a towel against my hair, and I was done. Joe would be wondering what was taking me so damn long.
Ah, the irony of that. I wouldn’t be surprised if he wondered that on a regular basis.
Biting my lip, I trotted down the close stairs. Had I answered my own question? Was it time to let go of Joe, accept that our relationship had as much depth as the archeological dig we’d just done—which had revealed nothing of worth?
The apple-blackberry crumble was fantastic, tart fruit and sweet crunchy topping smothered in hot custard. At this point, it was the highlight of my sorry day. (The orgasm in the shower had been good but served as a reminder of everything that was wrong in my life.)
It was probably two a.m. when I crept out of bed. Joe never stirred. The B&B room contained one of those faux double beds, really two twins shoved together. He’d never been much of a cuddler anyway. I shucked on my clothes, left a scribbled note on my pillow, and was out the door without hearing so much as a break in his snoring.
Out the door and on the road to Pencraig.
I didn’t know why I was going, I really didn’t. It’s not like I could dig something up under the moonlight, or stumble across some unique architectural feature that everyone else had completely missed, but which would bring the development process to a screeching halt because we’d have to research and catalogue it in depth.
I guess I just wasn’t quite ready to give up. Or maybe the opposite was true: I had to find in myself the strength to say good-bye.
We had several flashlights in the trunk with the rest of our gear, heavy bright Maglites for peering into dark places, and I grabbed one before heading toward the manor house.
Some call the night still, but I say they aren’t listening hard enough. A breeze rustled through the brambled hedges and overgrown trees, and the faint squeak of an unfortunate tiny creature was followed by the low hoot of an owl carrying supper to its lair.
The air itself felt alive. I didn’t believe in ghosts, not really, but by the same token, when I dug up an artifact, it wasn’t a cold, emotionless object to me. It had belonged to someone once. Someone who lived, loved, cried, dreamed, and died. I felt that everywhere I worked—that people’s stories were embedded in the walls, soaked into the stones and earth and combs and buckles and horse-straps and cooking pots.
As I walked through Pencraig, carefully because most of the flooring had rotted away years ago, I found myself imagining the inhabitants as I had in the shower. Not just the lord and his lady wife, but the children, the scullery maids, the grooms, the chatelain and master of the hawks.
To make money between school terms, I’d done tours at various historic sites. My talks always got rave reviews because, attendees said, I made history come alive for them. I told stories about the people who’d lived there, weaving in facts and dates to enhance the tales rather than overwhelm them.
Here at Pencraig, had the master of hawks pined for the forbidden love of one of the stable boys? Had a cook’s assistant longed for the touch of the lord’s brother? Had the chatelain and the children’s nursemaid had a torrid, lustful marriage, marred only by the babies that died before they took their first breath?
All that and more, through generations.
I pulled my faded gray jumper more tightly around my shoulders and stepped back into the courtyard.
Hands grabbed me, arms wrapping around my waist as a hard body pressed along the length of my back, buttocks, thighs. Fear knocked the breath out of me. Before I could find the breath to scream a voice said, low in my ear, “Cassid
y.”
I sagged against Joe. “Jesus, you scared the shit out of me.”
“I’m sorry.” He turned me around and wound his arms around me again, now tucked hard against me front to front. “You scared the shit out of me, too, when I found you gone.”
It had been several hours since I’d left. “How’d you get here?”
“Taxi. It took fucking forever to get one at this time of night out here. I think he thought I was crazy.”
I chuckled against him. “You are crazy.”
“Don’t ever leave like that, Cassidy. Dammit.”
“I left you a note.”
“I don’t care. You still scared the shit out of me,” he repeated.
I realized he was shaking, and a wave of guilt washed over me. “I’m sorry. I just needed to… I don’t know what I needed. I just wasn’t ready to say good-bye to this place.”
“I know. I know.” He dropped light kisses over my forehead and cheeks and nose. “It’s one of the things I love most about you, Cassidy. You care so much. It’s so hard for you to let go.”
If only he knew.
He kissed me then. What started as a touch as sweet as the ones on my face grew harder, more insistent. Normally somewhat tentative and questing, his tongue now claimed mine. His fingers dug into my upper arms as if he could assuage his own fear by grabbing hold of me.
A thrill washed through me, from my plundered mouth to the tips of my hiking boot-clad toes, and more important places in between. Hurrah!