Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!
This last week I've been writing a witch story, so here's an excerpt from my early story, White as Any Milk, Black as Any Silk, which is about two rival medieval sorcerers battling it out for magical supremacy ... which involves each trying to get the other one to orgasm first!
I hardly had time to notice this and stretch out flat across the expanse of the bed when the door to my chamber opened and Galiena walked in. She was naked but for the ash-drift of her unbound hair and the blue filigree of tattooing on a skin white as moonlight itself. Her eyes were hard, but her mouth twisted in a smile when she saw me.
I was struck dumb and frozen with shock. I could not react even when she reached the side of my bed and looked down upon me.
"Chedzoy's dog," she sneered. Her voice was soft, nonetheless. She reached for the blanket and drew it from the bed in one motion, dropping it at her feet. I think I raised my hands in protest. And my prick moved too, stirring to life under her gaze with a wrench so sharp that it was almost painful. Her glance was not modest; it was cool and appraising, conducting as harsh an examination of my supine form as it had of my character. She raked her glance down my body from head to foot, taking in all from my startled face to my chest with its delta of black hair, down the flat stomach bisected with a line of hair that flared into the thicket of my groin - lingered there while my prick quivered and thickened visibly - and then travelled on down the stretch of my legs right to my toes. I felt self-conscious about every inch but she did not seem displeased. Her smile even relaxed a little. She laid one hand upon my burgeoning member and it leaped under her touch like a hound greeting its mistress.
I groaned out loud and stared helplessly as she slipped her hand about my shaft and caressed it from root to tip.
The smile, still not entirely kindly, suffused her face still further. Still stroking me, she sank down on the edge of the bed, laid one finger on my lips and then explored my face with her free hand; my short beard, the stubble on my cheeks, the soft skin of my throat. I could not have resisted even if she had produced a knife and cut my jugular. Her left hand now cupped and weighed my ballocks, pulled tenderly at my hairs, then slid up and down the rampant length of a prick that was harder than rock and hotter than fever. I felt like the Giant of Cerne Abbas. I dug in my heels and pushing up into her kneading grasp.
She bent over my face. Her lips brushed mine, very softly. Her hand, relentless, worked my long staff. I felt her breath mingling with my own, tasted her warm mouth. I could suddenly move - enough to pass one hand up to the back of her head and pull her against me, our tongues melting together in a warm, hungry, terrifying dance. Her hair was thick and soft under my palm. Joy stabbed through me so sharply that it hurt.
Then she pulled away, ignoring the pressure of my hand, leaving my lips bereft. Her expression was heavy-lidded and grave. She kissed my face and my jaw and my throat, began to work her way down my body with her mouth. My skin was cool so her tongue felt like fire, though it left a cold trail across my flesh. She licked my flat nipples until they hardened to hailstones and I writhed under her touch; she tugged my chest-hair with her teeth; she blazed a trail down my breastbone and belly and licked a tickling, tormenting path around my navel. My right hand was entwined in the abundance of her hair. It fell like a living fountain across my skin, cold and warm all at the same time, soft as nightfall and puissant as moonrise.
The bell in the castle tower began to toll the hour.
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