My Empress, My Queen," the
servant purred as he poured a
honey-glowing stream of scented
oil across her back. Oil beads
glistened on her skin as he smoothed
the oil across her shoulders,
massaging his way down to the
dip in her back, all the way
down to her round, firm buttocks.
Tiny beads of oil slid inside
the crack of her bottom, then
slipped down her bare skin, moistening
her sex.
His hands were large, his fingers
expressive, as he massaged the
warm oil into her welcoming skin.
She moaned softly.
Somewhere in the distance, the
natives were beating the drums.
Tom-tom-tom-tom, the
drums sounded, resounding in
her ears.
She loved the sensation of his
knowing fingers caressing her
slender body, nurturing her fragrant
skin. He cupped her buttocks
in his hands, pressing her flesh
fully. "Firm, round, full," he
murmured.
She groaned, burying her face
in the silk pillow.
"Shall we roll you over,
Your Grace?" he asked.
"Yes," she gasped. "That
would be lovely."
He placed a thick, heated towel
over her and helped her to roll
over onto her back, adjusting
the towel so that it covered
her breasts. With one eye half-opened,
she flashed him with a lazy smile,
and noticed that his loincloth
was slipping dangerously low.
His taut belly was sinewy and
sculpted; peeking out from the
top of his loincloth were a few
curly black hairs. She shivered
with a frisson of desire.
He gazed down at her, his large
brown eyes warm and full. His
olive-toned skin glowed as if
he were lit from within. She
demurely pulled the towel up,
wondering at her sudden modesty.
She felt vulnerable in this position,
yet at the same time, curiously
open, ready.
"My mistress," the
servant purred, his eyes dark
with hunger. She turned her head
to one side and saw that his
loincloth was on the verge of
slipping from his body. All she
had to do was raise her hand
and tug on the slim leather cord
that bound the loincloth to his
body, and he would be standing
before her, naked, raw.
"Shall I begin?" he
asked with a sultry purr.
"Yes," she whispered,
her eyes gleaming in the candlelight.
He again poured the molten honey
onto her belly, massaging the
warm oil into her skin. With
the towel still draping her breasts,
he worked his fingers up the
length of her smooth skin and
under the towel until his palms
were cupping her soft breasts.
He massaged the soothing oil
into her breasts, squeezing,
kneading, sculpting her under
his fingers as if he were Michelangelo
and she his muse.
She moaned softly, writhing,
her back arching.
"My lady," he murmured,
easing his way back down her
belly, still massaging oil into
her skin, working his way down
to her thighs. With his strong,
moist hands, he gently, yet firmly,
parted her legs, massaging the
oil deep into the cleft of her
body, to the place where she
stored her womanly secrets.
She groaned again, writhing
on the heated, padded table.
The towel slipped from her breasts;
she made no effort to catch it
as it slid off her body, falling
to the marble floor. The servant
smiled and returned to her breasts,
massaging them fully until they
gleamed; her areolas glistened
like ripe black olives, burnished
to a glowing ember.
Reaching forward, she caught
the edge of the leather cord
holding his loincloth and pulled.
The loincloth slid off his hips
in a seamless, fluid movement;
his massive cock sprang up, proud,
erect. Those lovely black curls,
peeking out from his loincloth,
curled around his manhood as
if presenting a delicious bouquet.
"Is my lady ready?" the
servant asked, tweaking her nipples,
sending shivers of desire flooding
through her. She arched her back,
writhing in anticipation.
"Oh yes," she groaned. "Oh
yes."
The servant slid onto the table
beside her, gently parted her
legs, and placed himself at the
point of entry. His fingers kneading
her flesh at her womanhood, he
slipped his fingers into her
pussy, in and out, in and out,
causing her to moan.
Tom-tom-tom-tom, the
drumbeats rolled.
"Aye me," she cried,
arching her back with yearning
desire. She watched as the servant
rose then, his manhood fully
erect, nearly bursting, his hands
stretching her legs apart, and
then he plunged in. He grabbed
her hips, lifting them up off
the table as he drove himself
inside, throbbing, pulsing.
Tom-tom-tom-tom.
He was big and sturdy, her stallion
servant. She cried out in misery
and joy as he drove himself deep,
deep inside her, his moist fingers
digging into her flesh, pulling
him closer to him. He was deep
inside her, his cock fully penetrating
to her core, his balls rubbing
up against her bottom. Then he
was throbbing inside her, the
shaft of his cock rubbing up
and down her vagina walls, rubbing,
pulsing, sending her into an
agony, an exquisite agony of
desire and longing.
Ring-ring-ring-ring.
"My mistress," he
groaned into her ear. Their bodies
were joined as one, moist, their
skin rubbing. He brought his
massive chest down onto her breasts,
crushing her under his weight
in a delicious heat of comfort
and warmth, safety and emotion.
Her breasts, oily with the scented
essence, were flushed with the
heat of him.
"Oh, my God," he
moaned. "You are so delicious." He
bit her ear.
And then she felt it, that tingling
sensation, that feeling of her
orgasm. It was like a freight
train; she could see it in the
distance, she could feel it;
it was coming. She contracted,
then released her muscles. He
groaned with pleasure. She sensed
that he could feel what
she was doing. She contracted,
then released, contracted, then
released.
The sensation of the tickling
was coming, drawing near.
Ring-ring-ring-ring.
She contracted, then released,
then at the final moment, she
held her breath.
Then, curiously, nothing.
"My Grace," the
servant said, but he was speaking
to her as if from the other side
of the cavernous cave. What was
happening?
The tickling sensation congealed,
then fell silent, still, as if
suffering a sudden death.
Ring-ring-ring-ring.
"My Grace," the
servant murmured, his voice floating
away.
Ring-ring-ring-ring.
"What?" she said,
her eyelids fluttering open.
And in that moment, the servant
disappeared, the heat of his
body was gone and she felt suddenly
cold. She looked about the cave--no,
it was a room, not a cave, and
then it all came back to her.
She’d been having a dream.
"Dammit." she cried.
The alarm clock was ringing
off the table. She lunged for
it, pushed the off button
and threw herself back against
her allergy-proof, hermetically
sealed pillow. She sighed with
frustrated resignation.
No servants. No tom-toms. Just
her--plain old Rhiannon, lying
in her queen-sized bed, alone.
"Dammit," she repeated,
more softly this time. Tears
of frustration filled her eyes.
Another failed orgasm.
She rolled over onto her side,
wrapping herself up in her sheet,
feeling very much alone, very
much abandoned. It was more than
the frustration of the dream
that was making her feel this
way. She felt so alone, so lonely.
Tears welled up in her eyes.
She hated the idea of having
to get out of her bed; she couldn’t
bear the idea of walking around
her empty, cold apartment. But
there was nowhere else for her
to go; home was gone. This was
her home now.
Cold comfort, that.
She sighed, untangled herself
from the sheets and padded barefoot
into her shower.
Maybe something will happen
today. Something interesting.
Hah. Now she was dreaming.