was suffused in a deep, dreamy languor that overlaid the urgent restlessness without banishing it. She was conscious of her body in a way she’d never known before. Her hands moved over the shape of herself, startled to discover that her nipples were hard, lifting to her touch. Her skin was warm and tingling as she passed her hands over her belly, feeling the sharp points of her hipbones. Her thighs parted as her hand slipped between them, feeling the moistness of her core, a strange sensitivity; and the aching restlessness rushed upon her anew.
She stroked herself, slipping slowly into a rich and sensual dreamland as the warmth crept over her and her body sank deeper into the feather bed. The twisting images in her head lost definition, and her eyes looked upon a soft, pulsating landscape without form or substance that drew her onward into the enticing glow.
She dreamed of a mouth on hers, of a kiss so light and delicate, it barely stirred the air. She dreamed that her hands were moving over a warm, powerful male body and she was inhaling the scent of skin, a scent that she knew but that was nonetheless unfamiliar and didn’t belong to herself. She dreamed that her own skin now touched the skin of the body beside her, that fingers caressed the small of her back, touched her breasts, swept down her form in long strokes that soothed the urgent restlessness but replaced it with a clearer sense of need. She dreamed her lips were parted for a different kiss, one that took driving possession of her mouth; she heard little feline cries in the humid sensual darkness of the deep enclosing feather mattress, and she dreamed they were her own. She dreamed a joyous fulfillment that seeped into every cell of her body, that made her soul sing in wonder. She dreamed that every part of herbody was lost in this other shape, that her limbs were joined with his, that as she dipped into the darkness of oblivion and surfaced again into the warm glowing light of her dreamworld, she was entwined with this other body, that her eyes were in her fingers and in her skin where it touched his. She dreamed the moments of joy again, the long slow sleepy slide into infinite pleasure, before she slipped again into the dim green glowing light of the sleep-filled trance.
The dream was with her all night, her body moving through the strange landscape, ever new and more glorious waves of pleasure breaking over her as she adapted herself with such wonderful ease to the large, powerful frame that both took from her in possession and gifted her with itself.
And when she awoke, her eyes opened onto washed-out sunshine, and she was alone.
But the dream was still with her. Its threads still twined beneath her skin, its images, blurred now, still inhabited her mind. She lay burrowed in the feather mattress, bewildered and disoriented, conscious of a sense of loss as she tried to recapture the defined images of the night.
Her hands moved over her body. She was naked. But she had not gone naked to bed. The disorientation faded, but her confusion increased as the room took shape in the early-morning light and memory returned.
She was naked and heir skin felt different: used, marked, in some strange and frightening way. There was a soreness between her legs—not a bad soreness, more a kind of warm and satisfied ache. Tentatively, she touched herself. There was a stickiness, and when she drew her hand away, she saw the smear of blood on her fingers.
Octavia kicked aside the covers and sat up. There was blood on the sheet and on the inside of her thighs … not much blood and it wasn’t flowing anymore.
It was three weeks before her next monthly terms. She lay down again, pulling the cover to her chin, and stared up at the chintz tester. The highwayman had raped her.
But he hadn’t. Nothing had happened that hadn’t brought her the most exquisite pleasure. She had believedherself to be dreaming, but the evidence was overwhelmingly in favor of reality.
And
She stroked herself, slipping slowly into a rich and sensual dreamland as the warmth crept over her and her body sank deeper into the feather bed. The twisting images in her head lost definition, and her eyes looked upon a soft, pulsating landscape without form or substance that drew her onward into the enticing glow.
She dreamed of a mouth on hers, of a kiss so light and delicate, it barely stirred the air. She dreamed that her hands were moving over a warm, powerful male body and she was inhaling the scent of skin, a scent that she knew but that was nonetheless unfamiliar and didn’t belong to herself. She dreamed that her own skin now touched the skin of the body beside her, that fingers caressed the small of her back, touched her breasts, swept down her form in long strokes that soothed the urgent restlessness but replaced it with a clearer sense of need. She dreamed her lips were parted for a different kiss, one that took driving possession of her mouth; she heard little feline cries in the humid sensual darkness of the deep enclosing feather mattress, and she dreamed they were her own. She dreamed a joyous fulfillment that seeped into every cell of her body, that made her soul sing in wonder. She dreamed that every part of herbody was lost in this other shape, that her limbs were joined with his, that as she dipped into the darkness of oblivion and surfaced again into the warm glowing light of her dreamworld, she was entwined with this other body, that her eyes were in her fingers and in her skin where it touched his. She dreamed the moments of joy again, the long slow sleepy slide into infinite pleasure, before she slipped again into the dim green glowing light of the sleep-filled trance.
The dream was with her all night, her body moving through the strange landscape, ever new and more glorious waves of pleasure breaking over her as she adapted herself with such wonderful ease to the large, powerful frame that both took from her in possession and gifted her with itself.
And when she awoke, her eyes opened onto washed-out sunshine, and she was alone.
But the dream was still with her. Its threads still twined beneath her skin, its images, blurred now, still inhabited her mind. She lay burrowed in the feather mattress, bewildered and disoriented, conscious of a sense of loss as she tried to recapture the defined images of the night.
Her hands moved over her body. She was naked. But she had not gone naked to bed. The disorientation faded, but her confusion increased as the room took shape in the early-morning light and memory returned.
She was naked and heir skin felt different: used, marked, in some strange and frightening way. There was a soreness between her legs—not a bad soreness, more a kind of warm and satisfied ache. Tentatively, she touched herself. There was a stickiness, and when she drew her hand away, she saw the smear of blood on her fingers.
Octavia kicked aside the covers and sat up. There was blood on the sheet and on the inside of her thighs … not much blood and it wasn’t flowing anymore.
It was three weeks before her next monthly terms. She lay down again, pulling the cover to her chin, and stared up at the chintz tester. The highwayman had raped her.
But he hadn’t. Nothing had happened that hadn’t brought her the most exquisite pleasure. She had believedherself to be dreaming, but the evidence was overwhelmingly in favor of reality.
And
Similar Books
