“D-Do… Do you not w-want to…?”
“Hush, love. You are cold and… frightened – I know. You must breathe, and get warm.” I began to chafe arms and legs through the furs, tried not to think of all the naked flesh beneath them.
She stared at me, eyes as twin Harvest Moons – blue ones. “B-But…”
I kissed her, a light pressing of our lips. Sat back, looked at her again; eyes the same size, perhaps some wonderment mixed with trepidation.
“You… we…”
“Have never done that, yes.” Vilja had always been content with (frequent) hugs; I never dared ask, either verbally or non-, for anything more. “Do you mean to tell me that you have never been kissed, either?”
She shook her head, looked away. I began to chuckle.
“Don’t lawf at me!” she protested.
Ere my mirth degenerated into guffaws, I suppressed it; she had as much as admitted to me some time ago that Halvdan had attempted to press his advances upon her more than once, and thus she had likely not experienced a proper kiss.
Still, her accent, combined with her wide-eyed innocence…
Smiling, I hugged her close. “I am not making fun of you, love.”
“You… Oh… I…” She began to giggle. At least she was no longer stammering – and that shy smile…
I released her long enough to toss some more fire salts on the brazier, wood into the hearth, move the kettle of cooling wash water closer to the bed. The room was soon warm, brighter as I sat beside her once more. I had brought a cloth, having dipped it into the warm water, wrung it slightly; laid it beside us. My bride’s eyes were no smaller, but I now detected some anticipation therein. I stole a hand beneath the furs, sought her foot, as a snow fox might hunt mice under a blanket of winter. She squealed, snatched it away. I dove in with the other hand, seized a supple ankle and its twin. Shrieking now, she kicked half-heartedly. Grinning, I held her lightly but firmly, looked into her eyes until she quieted. Her blue orbs glowed as a flush crept up her neck, to cheeks; sharp intake of breath as I released one foot to massage the other.
Gradually, I drew one tiny foot from under the furs, kneaded it, the arch, ankles, the ball, heel. She giggled as I worked my thumbs into her instep, writhed as if to pull away; another small gasp when I kissed here and there, treated the other likewise. With the cloth I bathed her feet, kissing toes one by one as I washed between them; took each into my mouth, sucked gently, teased with my tongue as though a Sword of Dibella. I revealed more of her, pulling the furs aside as the room – and my bride – warmed up. I continued upwards, lightly washing legs, thighs, stomach, breasts. For the nonce I paid no particular attention to her most sensitive spots; withal, her breathing quickened as I lifted one arm, washed it and the near-invisible tuft in the pit, then the other, proceeded to neck and face. Eyes now closed, she emitted slight mewling sounds as I kissed around her shallow belly, torso, breasts – ignoring, again, her engorged nipples – throat, eyes, nose.
“Turn over,” I commanded softly.
Her gasps became quiet moans as I helped her roll prone, yet tension remained in her body; legs tightly closed, arms stiffly folded up beneath her chest. After I washed her back, I gently pulled one arm out, then the other, rubbed the stiffness out of each, laid them straight beside her; progressed to her plump buttocks, down each leg. As I kissed the back of her knees, the moans intensified; her legs began to part. I carefully reached between them, rubbed the warm cloth over her cleft, washing the distended lower lips as detachedly as I could. She groaned, moved against my hand.
Bath concluded, I reached for the oil. She emitted a squeak of surprise as the fiery liquid drizzled betwixt her shoulder blades and I rubbed it into the smooth skin of her back, shoulders, neck. Relaxing further, her moans came in a near-continuous stream whilst I worked her round posterior and moved slowly down her legs, to calves and feet. I poured some more oil into her butt crack; let it dribble down along her swollen fissure. Her legs separated a little more as her moans suddenly ceased with a sharp intake of breath; she held it as I kissed each butt cheek, massaged and licked the hot, spicy liquid from the small of her back, up her spine, to the nape of her neck; across shoulders, arms, inside elbows. She jerked when I grabbed handfuls of her fleshy ass and squeezed, worked up and down, rubbed and caressed, kissed here and there.
Meanwhile I had shed my own clothing, whilst working some of the oil into my own skin; my nipples were as flaming arrowheads. When I climbed atop my love and bent over her, thrust my breasts into her back and began to writhe, my nipples engraved her skin; her breath escaped in an explosive groan, then a series of prolonged whimpers. I rubbed against her some more; turned, sat on her, moved up and down, along back, butt, legs, as I held onto her arms and used them much like slippery handrails. I slid off, began kissing and stroking her everywhere, this time centring towards her cleft as I splayed her legs wider. I curled a finger along the sodden crevice, caressed, stroked, probed; thrust one digit inside – by the Eight she was tight! – then another.
For all her prior moaning, her first climax came upon her in silence; yet I could tell it happened, as her whole body abruptly stiffened, convulsed, shuddered; a second time as I slid off to planted kisses all over her quivering form.
“Oh, gods…” she finally groaned. “I… What…? You…”
I gave her no chance to complete her thought, as I bade her turn on her back once more. This time I bent both knees up, splaying her glowing roseate centre for my viewing pleasure – and her sensual delight, as I dove in with lips and tongue. First, I pressed upon her a deep, proper kiss; tongue darting about her mouth, she sucked in another breath through her nose as she tentatively accepted the duel. I bent to breasts, nipples, bringing them to full attention via nibbles and licks; my hands were busy elsewhere. I proceeded to belly, the creases framing her dripping sex, to knees, returned to mound again, plucking at the protuberant lips so like butterfly wings; at last plunged into her sheath like a feeding shore bird, alternately licking and seizing her Sword of Dibella, slashing at it with my tongue. I soon had her screaming in rapture; she actually gushed all over my face.
“Oh, oh, oh, oh, ooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! P-Please… no more!” Quivering, she pushed me away.
I sat back, wiping and tasting the juices dripping off my nose and chin. It was… exquisite, and although she had laid neither finger nor tongue on me, I was nonetheless peculiarly satisfied as I towelled off the majority of our secretions from both of us, banked the fire, fed the brazier once more, snuggled into the furs with her. I wrapped myself about my tiny Vilja, as a mother bear might enfold protectively around her cub. This, I noted, had been what I missed with all my other lovers during my stints as werewolf and then vampire, and even ere then; this post-coital contact, as well as feelings of contentment and love, not simply of exhaustion and assuagement.
“I love you,” I murmured into an ear.
Still out of breath, she merely moaned in response, wriggled closer into me.
That first night I slept as a married woman, the Dark Brotherhood kidnapped me. Alas, that is another story.
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