Sunday, June 15, 2014
A Thousand Word Story from Clare London
TOUCH ME by Clare London
© Clare London 2014
(NSFW but oh so good -- Cryselle)
“Touch me,” I whisper.
The undergrowth rustles and creaks around me: the air is thick and moist. It’s warm in the clinging, humid way that I’ve learned to expect in these caves. I try to raise my arm but it’s pinned at my side.
The trap was sprung well.
“Touch me! It’s what you want, isn’t it?” I raise my voice, though the fingers at my throat are strong, pressing hard on my throat, thickening my breath.
But they’re real fingers: real hands. The answering breath at my neck is human enough for me to recognise. To appeal to. To crave.
My heart is beating higher in my chest than normal. Sweat beads on my skin. A trickle of it rolls down my back between my shoulder blades.
The sticky tendrils on my belly shift very slightly. The arm across my chest tightens, the skin cool and taut on my own fevered flesh.
“Make use of me,” I say. My thighs clench at the thought of his other hand sliding down from its grip on my waist, of it reaching lower into my shorts. A flex of those fingers and the cloth will be ripped away. I’ll be naked; bound in his clutches. I cannot move my legs. I cannot see his face. I cannot fight back. But I can feel every inch of that muscular body behind me, the pinioning strength of his limbs.
I’m naked already, in all other ways.
The air ripples softly around me. It’s the sound of a slow but powerful beat of huge wings stretching themselves, reaching for release.
“Don’t waste me,” I say raggedly. A tighter grip of his hand, and my neck will be broken. “I want you before I die. I want to know you.”
The reaction to fear is a strange one, but unmistakable. My cock is swollen, aching to be freed: to be stroked. I’m an inch from death, but my body aches for him.
Did I allow the trap to take me? Did I deliberately step into his web of tangled roots and viscous thread?
One of the fingernails at my throat scrapes almost gently over my bared skin. His other hand slides down my hip, dragging and tearing my last clothing with it. The body behind me shifts again. My bindings don’t loosen but me legs are pulled further apart. I’m like a doll. A plaything.
I don’t expect a verbal response: I don’t get one. But I’m still alive.
The wings beat again, the air being sucked in and out of our space. The hanging vines slap against my skin. Breathing hurts. There are tears at the corners of my eyes, but they’re not for sorrow.
Anticipation has no time to be savoured. He enters me before I have time to brace for it. I can take his forcefulness, but I’m not being asked. My back arches as he thrusts. The bindings tighten on my thighs and arms, then relax as he pulls back. Then tighten again as he pushes into me.
He fills me, but the smooth movement is unexpected. There’s desire and demand, but no cruelty. Every stroke both claims and caresses me. I’ve no time to wonder at this. The warmth across my groin is more than just the atmosphere around us. The prickle of need is getting urgent. My arse quivers, the buttocks clenching against him.
He must feel it too.
His next thrust is long and deep and I come with a wail of satisfaction and anguished pleasure, my hips rocking with the involuntary movement of my cock, my mouth opening wide, careless of his hold on my head.
But his fingers don’t bite into me: I don’t feel the gasping horror of further strangulation.
Shaking, I feel him inside me for a longer time, time enough for me to lose myself in the motions, to arch against his rhythm, to feel both relaxation and a secondary throbbing in my balls.
When he comes, he’s embedded so deeply my whole body is compressed against his. We jolt and shudder together. It’s as if the tendrils respond to his grasp. They cling to me like a lover’s touch, yet with a captor’s greed. The wings brush my shoulders as if closing around us both. It goes on for far longer than my own relief.
I lie stretched in my bonds, feeling his skin shiver against mine. I daren’t think that shows anything more between us than physical reaction.
Will it be now? Has he taken what he wants, and has no more need of me? Will the hands tighten on my neck and wrench my spine apart? I want to feel some satisfaction in my last moments – in this coupling.
But it’s not enough.
It never will be.
“I want more,” I whisper. My voice is hoarse from my cries and from the tension. “That’s the truth. Take that from me as well.”
His shivering eases. The tendrils loosen around my arms and legs. Slowly at first, I slump down, then fall to the ground. The foliage is thick here despite the rock beneath it. There’s no botanical sense to it, but it makes for a relatively soft landing.
For a shocked, disbelieving moment I lie there, afraid to move.
Afraid to escape.
The wings beat behind me. I turn my head, but my neck is agonisingly painful and my whole body’s stiff. By the time I’ve opened my eyes, there’s nothing to see except the damp fronds hanging around me like a veil, and a ripple of movement in the dark depths of the cave.
I’m still alive. I’m aching, not just from physical pain.
The last tendril slides off my body, tickling the skin on my belly, lingering on my flesh for far too long before plopping to the soft ground.
As if reluctant to leave me.
My relief is much more than the joy of being allowed to live. His touch is mine.
We’ll meet again.
Wow! I post a darker picture and Clare London said her "every writing synapse" went to work!
After that we need some more of her delicious imagination, which we'll get in her new release, No Angel, available from Amber Allure.
If only that were the end of it. But Bryn the ghost follows him home and wheedles himself into Felix’s life. That includes sharing his shameless opinions on the patronising way Felix treats his brother, on how Felix should eat more food and put some flesh on his bones, and – worst of all – exactly how Felix should be getting down to it with his seriously sexy new boyfriend Mickey! And in between all that, Bryn finds time to leer at Felix himself and make outrageous suggestions on what they’d be doing if Bryn wasn’t … well … ghostly.
Felix considers he’s a tolerant guy. But the last thing he needs now is to get wrapped up in the mystery of a missing teenage girl, the inhabitants of a local squat, and conversations with a fire-and-brimstone old preacher. However, with a nudge or six from Bryn, the help of his brother Patrick, and some cosy loving from Mickey – Felix starts to wonder how he ever thought his life was busy before!