Remember my review of Emmanuelle de Maupassant's 'Cautionary Tales' a couple of weeks ago? One of the things that made me smile was that when I wrote my own faux-Russian fairy tale, Too Much of Water, for Fierce Enchantments, I found a very similar caustic, judgmental, bitter-old-lady narrative voice. It must be a Slavic thing :-D
Too Much of Water is a retelling of The Frog Prince. Zorya has made a bargain with a Vodyanoi - a water-spirit - and now has to pay him back for retrieving her golden ball...
What she did then not even the whores of Kiev will do: such a thing is reserved for a husband alone, for the intimacy of the marriage bond. She took his pale bestial length, already oozing at the slitted tip with eager moisture, into her hot mouth. The Vodyanoi groaned at that just like a real man. She used tongue and lips to explore his girth and his strange contours and then worked him deep into her throat, sucking warmth into that chill staff. It gave her satisfaction in unexpected places to suck him like this, and she felt her own sex flutter as her fingertips weighed the heavy pouch of his stones, finding water still dripping from the black ringlets of hair at his groin.
Shifting his weight forward, he leaned into her. His legs were tense, almost as hard as the iron of his pike. His hips jerked as her head rose and fell in supplication, and he pressed his cock so far to the back of her throat that she gagged and tears welled in her eyes.
I could choke here, she thought, snatching her breath in the backstroke. It wasn’t a new idea though: her husband had similarly used her. The Tsar was an older man and would sometimes take so long that she’d weep for the ache in her jaw—but that wasn’t to be the case this time. She felt the
Vodyanoi’s rhythm grow fiercer, then become a stutter, and suddenly her mouth was awash with his slippery flood. Instantly—so copious was the flow—her fear of choking became a fear of drowning, and she jerked her head back with a gasp. His cock shuddered upon her tongue as the liquid, as cold and clear as mill water, overflowed her mouth and ran down over her chin.
He tasted of nothing at all: just like water.
The Vodyanoi withdrew from her open lips, glaring at her. Swallowing hard and struggle to get her breath back, Zorya nevertheless felt a strange bereavement now it was over, and a dread as to what would come next. Would he grow contemptuously indifferent now—or irritable—as her husband often did?
But her paramour was a Vodyanoi, and unlike a mortal man a single spasm of sin was not enough to sate him. Even as he stood back, his spend still drizzled down the underside of his rigid shaft, as if his balls were too full and now boiling over. He tilted his head, clearly weighing the options, as his gaze raked her kneeling body. ‘You have certain uses, alive,’ he admitted.
Then stooping, he lifted her, his muscles moving like waves under his skin. He turned her from him and thrust her toward the side of the royal bed—a piece of furniture so high that there was a padded bench to facilitate climbing into it. Zorya was pushed down to kneel upon that bench, her elbows on the bed itself. Then the Vodyanoi crouched behind her, lifted up the golden net that was her only garment, and spread her rump cheeks with his hands to reveal her most private parts.
Such shame! What man would do that to a woman? What man would thrust his face into that cleft and lick her, his tongue slithering over her pearl and into her well and then up between the orbs of her bottom to lap at the tight pucker between? It was as if the water spirit were trying to devour her earthiness. Zorya buried her face in the coverlet of the bed, rubbing her cheek upon the silver fox-fur as the Vodyanoi’s tongue—longer and stronger than any human man’s—danced and probed in her most private places, forcing entry into those treasure chambers that only her husband ought to access, and making her cry out.
Let us be charitable and say that it was shame that caused her to whimper and gasp and call upon God as the Vodyanoi’s tongue slid in and out of her—for no woman is entirely devoid of shame, not even a headstrong wanton such as she. Let us assume that it was an attempt to dull the pain that caused her to thrust her fingers down between the smooth fur of the coverlet and her own rougher fur, as he rose up behind her and breached the portal of her sex with his ram. His hand was heavy between her shoulder blades, pinning her to the bed. His hard thighs slapped against the backs of hers and his scrotum bounced on the cushioning lips of her sex, so deep did he delve with each thrust. Zorya heaved her hips against his invasion, but if she regretted her witch’s bargain it was too late now. He rutted inside her just as he had done in her mouth: swift and ruthless, taking his pleasure without regard for her delicacy of feeling. There was a minor difference, in that this time her throat was not stuffed with his meat and he could clearly hear her moans rising in pitch as he stretched her wide. But the result was the same: a great and sudden outpouring, flooding her to such an extent that when he pulled out it ran from her furrow and splashed upon the padded stool. Yet still his prick stood erect, quivering with eagerness, and he had one further use for it. Smearing his own issue up her split with brazen-bold fingers, he redirected that slick and narrow tip to the juicy clench of her anus and pressed home his advantage, forging deep into forbidden territory.
Zorya felt every inch. His inhuman member was as slippery and muscular as an eel and it surged inside her as if swimming upstream. Under his touch she was becoming a river: everything fluid, everything falling. She could hear the rain drumming on the wooden shingles overhead and it was like it was falling into her soul. Her body gave up all resistance and yielded, unable to withstand the waves of sensation rippling up her spine and out along every limb to the tips of her spread fingers. She pawed the coverlet beneath her and sobbed into it, her heat soaking the fur.
Oh yes!
ReplyDeleteSo much that I love about this Janine.
Thank you for such wonderful storytelling.
These lines are particularly evocative:
'His inhuman member was as slippery and muscular as an eel and it surged inside her as if swimming upstream. Under his touch she was becoming a river: everything fluid, everything falling.'