My reason to believe centres around my writing – and the hope that, one day, my five books already published – including the one mentioned here – and those yet to come will hit the big time and be read by MILLIONS of discerning readers!
I have been backward about coming forward with belief in myself, Alienora. Maybe this post will convince both me, and hundreds of others, that my words are, indeed, a sparkling reason to believe in the power of the written word!
Lavender oil she massaged into his body, her eyes slightly lidded and downcast so that he could not reach her.
Clever fingers, they were, neat and tiny, doll sized – but she knew what she was doing, always had: an instinct older than this life time had guided her limbs into both acquiescence and rocking dominance, climbing, as if it had always been her role, upon his hardness and pulsing that ancient downward rhythm as, muscles clenching in the sex riff, her body squeezed and released, squeezed and released, the scent of lavender a torment in the sultry air.
Pausing, in control, aflame with the slippery oleaginous skin, the wafting bitterness of semen, the overpowering olfactory memory of lilac-blue fields waving in the wind, the gathering, came to her…
Ah! The gathering! The gentle combing of plants for their secrets; the release, bulging in homespun muslin, held in women’s hands, coaxed by music and moonshine, the ritual burning of the Beltaine fires a signal.
Tender white fingers, dimpled plump matronly hands, withered and ropy crone palms – the Triple Goddess, the three ages of woman, united in the plucking, the gathering, the grinding and sanctifying. Medicinal, much of it, fragrant therapy. But not all…
By no means all…
Crackling of sticks, the fiery rupture of wood, as the frenzied dancing swept sense from the head, inhibition from the body. Garlands, offerings to the May, let their tom cat odours mingle with the ash, the musky rose and the enticement of lavender – all around, the maddening smell…
She clawed the muscles of his back lightly, pressed dainty fingers into his buttocks, bent lower to the task, fingernails scraping thigh backs with a promise of delights to come, nipples responding to the perfumed heat rising between their bodies.
She had chosen him, as was her right at this time. She had watched him watching her, had known that he was the one for tonight, that she would take his hand – while shadows of coupling bodies loomed vast across the landscape – and lead him into the forest, to the clearing she had noticed earlier.
She had washed him in the little pool, moon-lit and clear, and had moved back, a little dance of denial, when his hands had reached insistently for her.
‘No,’ she had said, her voice falling into the warm and husky register, ‘the lavender is my gift to you. Its gathering was part of the Beltane Rite – and, for tonight, your pleasure is my desire.’
The grass was dampening beneath them.
His breath came faster, rasping and hitching in his throat, as she nudged his body over.
He was young, as was she, ready, inexperienced, swallowing and urging her on with little bucks of his hips.
But, she took her time, the warmth of her palms drizzling the oil over his chest hair, following the line down, down, beneath the solar plexus, his whole body straining upwards, breath a rattle of, ‘Now, now, now!’
Hands clenching, he reached for her breasts, wanting her.
She let him stroke and lick, as her hands began their journey down the inner thighs, up and down, down and up – and still she did not touch him where he so longed to be caressed.
His hands explored, moved down, found the slick wetness. She moved slightly, unable, for she was very young herself, to hold off.
As her little white hands began to stroke lavender essence along his rigid member, she felt his fingers searching her out, stroking, uncertainly at first, the earthy- smelling valley and the little bud which made her breath fetch and miss, miss and fetch.
Faster his fingers went, circling the centre, delving into the centre of her; faster her fingers went, up and down the shaft of him, pearly drops beginning to gather, the gathering growing in pace and urgency, her nipples so hard with need that they almost hurt in the pre-dawn chill, his phallus straining, trembling, rock hard and wanting, wanting…
Into his eyes she stared, and saw, reflected, the flushing of her own face and chest, heard, through his lips, her own gasping and odd little animal noises, knew that she couldn’t hold off any longer, that something was rising unstoppably in her…
She twitched her hips up, wriggled her body down, felt him resting, briefly, at the tip of her inner self, felt the heat – and then arched down, a madness of lust overwhelming her, lavender spiralling through the pores of their bodies, and felt him thrusting, thrusting, pushing into her, meeting her flowing with vast and powerful force.
She rocked with him, feeling him filling her; she could not stop, rode him wildly, desperately, seeking, skin flushing all over, wordless cries breathed into his mouth, tongues touching, sucking, screams rising, until she felt him hover for a moment, still, and then gather for a great wave of jetting hotness squirting inside her – and her body began to convulse in unison, her nub vibrating, the walls of her womanhood matching his come.
And she screamed out his name, as he screamed hers, into the oily lavender fragrance of the night.
This one did not get published with the rest in my erotic book, ‘Come Laughing!’ (http://www.amazon.co.uk/Come-Laughing-bawdy-erotic-quickies/dp/150531643X/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1453103385&sr=1-1&keywords=come+laughing)because I thought I had lost it! If you enjoyed it, why not read the book?