Alphabet Soup (R, H). :-)
More Soup for You! :-D
Such a Gift
Mal remembers the humans who came to her mother’s parties. She remembers watching the women, flushed with wine, trailing after the boys who offered them oranges and pomegranates.
She remembers the one that Carmine brought to Mal’s bedroom: golden-haired like Polly, but with sky-blue eyes, her lips and fingers stained with pomegranate juice.
“I promise I won’t get jealous,” she’d teased, as the girl had sat, waiting, on the velvet window seat.
“You’re sure you won’t share?”
Carmine had stroked Mal’s cheek. “She’s for you, Lover. Happy birthday.”
Mal had thanked her with more than a kiss, making love with her slowly, while the girl waited, the thrall on her making her want only what they wanted: Blood and sex and each other. When they’d finished, and the scent of sex hung heavy in the room, they had dressed each other.
“Enjoy your present, Beloved,” Carmine had said and, with a kiss, had left them alone.
Mal had gone to the girl by the window whose heart was racing in her breast, had taken her, every inch and every ounce, with her hands and her hungry mouth, and she’d yielded with sighs and gasps and pleas for more, offering her throat at last.
Mal had taken that, too, drinking her hot blood eagerly, draining her until there was nothing left but a stained, empty shell, red as the rind of a pomegranate.
Mal remembers all of this. Part of the story she won’t tell Polly, the story of her past.
*****
Simple Needs
They say that escaping death makes you ache for sex - perhaps that’s why women like the Solid Doves are always found near battle fields. Polly doesn’t know for sure about the other men, but she’s found that it’s true enough of herself. Those nights when the retreat has been sounded, she finds herself reaching for Mal, burning up with the need for her mouth, her arms, her hands, eager for the slide of skin on sweat-slick skin.
In the humid darkness of the tent, Polly presses Mal to the ground, her mouth eager at Mal’s throat, her hips grinding against Mal’s quick fingers, her own hand moving, slick and steady, between Mal’s shaking thigh.
“Uh-huh, uh-huh,” she gasps against Mal’s skin, her breath gasping and urgent as the waves of her climax build and crest and break on her shuddering body.
Even before her aftershocks have subsided, Polly’s own fingers begin to move faster, drawing sighs and gasps from Mal’s mouth, coaxing her higher, needing to feel Mal shaking beneath her as much as she needed to come. Mal arches her back when she comes, pressing herself against Polly, and Polly feels Mal’s abdomen as it flutters and spasms through her climax.
After, they lie in a tangle of limbs, Polly’s head pillowed on Mal’s shoulder, until Polly feels herself stirring again, fingers trailing lightly over Mal’s pale skin, her mouth moving on Mal’s throat, her hand cupping a rose-tipped breast.
“Malah,” she murmurs, “I need you again.”
*****
Well? What do you think? :-)
Such a Gift
Mal remembers the humans who came to her mother’s parties. She remembers watching the women, flushed with wine, trailing after the boys who offered them oranges and pomegranates.
She remembers the one that Carmine brought to Mal’s bedroom: golden-haired like Polly, but with sky-blue eyes, her lips and fingers stained with pomegranate juice.
“I promise I won’t get jealous,” she’d teased, as the girl had sat, waiting, on the velvet window seat.
“You’re sure you won’t share?”
Carmine had stroked Mal’s cheek. “She’s for you, Lover. Happy birthday.”
Mal had thanked her with more than a kiss, making love with her slowly, while the girl waited, the thrall on her making her want only what they wanted: Blood and sex and each other. When they’d finished, and the scent of sex hung heavy in the room, they had dressed each other.
“Enjoy your present, Beloved,” Carmine had said and, with a kiss, had left them alone.
Mal had gone to the girl by the window whose heart was racing in her breast, had taken her, every inch and every ounce, with her hands and her hungry mouth, and she’d yielded with sighs and gasps and pleas for more, offering her throat at last.
Mal had taken that, too, drinking her hot blood eagerly, draining her until there was nothing left but a stained, empty shell, red as the rind of a pomegranate.
Mal remembers all of this. Part of the story she won’t tell Polly, the story of her past.
*****
Simple Needs
They say that escaping death makes you ache for sex - perhaps that’s why women like the Solid Doves are always found near battle fields. Polly doesn’t know for sure about the other men, but she’s found that it’s true enough of herself. Those nights when the retreat has been sounded, she finds herself reaching for Mal, burning up with the need for her mouth, her arms, her hands, eager for the slide of skin on sweat-slick skin.
In the humid darkness of the tent, Polly presses Mal to the ground, her mouth eager at Mal’s throat, her hips grinding against Mal’s quick fingers, her own hand moving, slick and steady, between Mal’s shaking thigh.
“Uh-huh, uh-huh,” she gasps against Mal’s skin, her breath gasping and urgent as the waves of her climax build and crest and break on her shuddering body.
Even before her aftershocks have subsided, Polly’s own fingers begin to move faster, drawing sighs and gasps from Mal’s mouth, coaxing her higher, needing to feel Mal shaking beneath her as much as she needed to come. Mal arches her back when she comes, pressing herself against Polly, and Polly feels Mal’s abdomen as it flutters and spasms through her climax.
After, they lie in a tangle of limbs, Polly’s head pillowed on Mal’s shoulder, until Polly feels herself stirring again, fingers trailing lightly over Mal’s pale skin, her mouth moving on Mal’s throat, her hand cupping a rose-tipped breast.
“Malah,” she murmurs, “I need you again.”
*****
Well? What do you think? :-)