by Jean Johnson
From her arms, he moved to her face, gently scrubbing the grime from her skin. She paused him long enough to rinse her head under the tub’s wall-mounted spigot, then wet her hair so that he could scrub more of the softsoap through her fine, long locks. Zeilas took extra care with her scalp, knowing from past encounters with other women that many of them liked this sort of attention. After that, he massaged her back, caressed her breasts, and stroked her stomach and hips, turning her this way and that.
By the time he had her stand so he could stroke the re-lathered rag down her legs, the look in her eyes had landed somewhere between dreamy and worshipful. Relaxed and aroused. And when he stroked that cloth between her upper thighs, the last place left to scrub, she endured it with a very feminine grin, then growled playfully and stole the rag with an insistent tug. Sinking back onto her knees, she re-lathered the square until the lather foamed over her fingers—then smeared it across his mouth and chin with a laugh, giving him a bubble beard.
Sputtering, Zeilas tried to reach for her hands, but she dodged and dropped another dollop of soapsuds on the end of his nose. Giving up on corralling her hands, he settled for grasping her hips. The soap made her slippery, but he didn’t mind. Kneading her buttocks, he pulled her close, planted his face between her breasts, and blew a loud, wet, sudsy raspberry. That made her laugh out loud, her voice ringing off the tiled walls.
Only then did he grab the rag long enough to scrub his face. She recaptured it when he rinsed the soap away and tackled his shoulders and back. Marta scrubbed his skin from scalp to soles, lingering on his shaft last. Leaning over the edge, she fetched a rinsing pail from the floor under the table and used it on both of them as the tub drained, then filled it from the spigot with clean water to get the last of the lather off their skin.
Refilling the broad, glazed basin with more hot water, she reached for the pot of tea. It had cooled considerably, and steeped a bit strong, but just smelling the astringent brew revitalized his tired, relaxed senses. Tasting it helped further. As did the nibbly little pastry thing she pressed to his lips, something crumbly, delicate, and filled with herbed cheese. Zeilas accepted the mouthful readily, then spent several seconds carefully licking the crumbs from her skin. Snagging a small biscuit topped with meat minced in a thick, creamy sauce, he teased her lips with the morsel until she bit into it, and sucked on his thumb in passing.
Together, they ate most of the food on the tray, feeding each other, kissing and suckling and licking on whatever body parts happened to get close enough to taste. Thankfully, the herbal flavor of the soap lingered only faintly on their skin and didn’t clash with the miniature feast. He could have wished for a little more of her own flavor, something sweet and salty and feminine, but that would come back with time and perhaps a little sweat.
Hungry for more than food, Zeilas gently caught the hands exploring his flesh and pulled them free. At her disappointed sound, he mustered a smile. Half a smile; the other half of him was struggling for control, mindful of their awkward surroundings.
“Not here,” he murmured when Marta tried to touch him again. “Not in a bathtub. In your bed.”
She stopped resisting. Flipping the clever lever that drained the tub, she smiled with both sides of her mouth and climbed out. Following her, he took one of the towels from the bench and started drying her skin. She did the same for him, giggling when the lengths of cloth tangled, the two of them working at cross-purposes. After he squeezed the moisture from her hair and she scrubbed it from his, they met over the damp cloths for a soft, laughing, hungry kiss.
The soft lengths of cotton fell to the floor, no longer needed. Thigh to thigh, breast to chest, lips to lips, they entwined and embraced. The feel of his shaft rubbing against the soft skin of her belly, of her breasts brushing against his sternum evoked the need to feel more, to feel other things rubbing together. Once again sweeping her off her feet, Zeilas carried her out of the bathing room. The sudden move made her gasp and break their kiss, but that was alright; he needed to see where to carry her.
She had dimmed or extinguished most of the oil lamps before entering the bathing room, he noted. A mesh screen shielded the red-glowing logs in the hearth, and a lamp burned on either side of the canopied bed, but that was it. Just enough light to see by, but not enough to keep them awake, should they fall asleep afterward.
And it will be afterward, he thought, carrying her to the bed. Goddesses of both lands, I’ve waited a long time for this. Ever since I first heard her laugh.
Good mare, Fireleaf murmured sleepily in the back of his mind as he carefully laid Marta on the feather-stuffed mattress. Good foals, too. Good night ...
Good night, he thought back, not bothering to correct his Steed. Instead, he pulled the covers careully down while Marta adjusted her position on the bed. The mystical stallions bred when and where they wanted to, ignoring some mares who were in heat—an act contrary to more normal stallions—and somehow inducing heat in other mares, depending upon their moods.
According to Fireleaf, sex was all about creating foals that were just a little bit faster, stronger, and better than their dams, no doubt as much by Arbora’s choice as by the Steed’s whims. But for Zeilas and Marta, this wasn’t about procreation. Just pleasure, and as much of it as we can manage—whup!
Rather than letting him take his time crawling into the bed next to her, she had snaked her arms around his shoulders and impatiently tugged him down over her. “I want to feel you against me, again,” Marta murmured. “I want to feel every inch of you against every inch of me.”
Thank the Gods for women who know what they want! That was his last coherent thought for a while. The feel of her, the enthusiasm with which she hooked one of her calves behind his thigh, denied coherency. In retaliation, he kissed his way down from her mouth to her breast, plumping it in his hand. She groaned at the swirling of his tongue and tugged on his hair when he teased her with his teeth.
Slipping a hand between them, he teased her inner thighs with the lightest of touches, counterpoint to the suckling of her breast. She didn’t hesitate; after only a minute or so, Marta grabbed his hand and brought it straight to the crux of her thighs. Her curls were warm and slick. His heart skipped a beat, then raced with the need to thrust. Carefully, Zeilas focused on giving her pleasure, first by tracing his fingertips between her netherlips, then by probing slowly, gently into her depths. Slotting his thumb over her node, he curled his fore and middle fingers and circled with the pad of his thumb.
“—Holy Gods!”
Her heartfelt shout startled him, since she had never struck him as particularly reverent. It also made him grin and flutter his fingers harder. Marta bit her lip and strained into his touch, then let out her breath in a gust, panting. Within moments she was moaning again, moans which rapidly became words.
“Oh, Gods ... oh Gods oh Gods ... oh! Gods, that’s even better than my crankman!” she exclaimed.
The term puzzled him. He stilled his hand and released her breast, giving her room to think. “Than your ... what?”
She stilled for a long moment, and then the slyest smile he had ever seen on anyone curled both corners of her mouth. It broke into a grin a split moment before she squirmed out from underneath him. Catching his dismayed look, Marta snagged his hand and brought it to her mouth, sucking briefly on the damp digits. Breathless, he was disappointed when she let go moments later and rolled toward the far nightstand. She didn’t stay away for long, just the length of time it took for her to open the top drawer, dig around, and pull out a polished metal rod.
Facing him, she sat up and brandished the odd device. It looked sort of like a silvery peppermill, since it had a crank at one end, but the other end was rounded and smooth, with no holes. The shaft was striped in a trio of long, spiraling ridges from crank to tip, more like ripples than creases, and there was a push-button thing at the end, something which he could only identify as a push button because he had learned to do so over the last few months
in this land.
Her blue eyes gleamed with an excitement palpable even in the dim lighting of the bedroom. “This is the greatest invention to ever come out of the Clockworks Guild. Never mind our collaborations with the Hydraulics and Pistons Guilds to create things like the motormen and so forth. This is the absolute greatest.”
“What does it do?” he asked, mystified. It wasn’t a peppermill, and it didn’t look like a weapon. Zeilas was stumped.
“This.” Smirking, she thumbed the push button—which he saw slotted all the way from one side of the rounded, ridged casing to the other—gripped the shaft, and cranked the handle. She turned and turned and turned it, until it finally slowed and stopped winding easily. Then, with a fierce grin, she pushed the button-shaft to the far side.
The rod began shaking and buzzing, startling him. Startling, and confusing. Zeilas slowly shook his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t get it. Is that all it does? Rattle?”
“Well, if you push the button to the far side and hold on to the crank, the shaft spins,” Marta offered. At his puzzled stare, she smirked and grasped his shaft, making him suck in a startled, if pleased, breath. “Here, let me show you what you do with it ...”
Bringing the buzzing thing down to his shaft, she rubbed it against the head of his manhood. Sparks exploded behind his eyes. He lost all the breath in his lungs, only to suck it back in again quickly. Noise in his ears belatedly resolved into his own voice chanting hoarsely, “—Oh Gods oh Gods oh Gods oh Gods!”
She pulled it away. Shuddering, Zeilas fell down from the heights the machine had driven him ... only to lose even more of his wits as he watched her stretch out on the bed, bend one leg up out of the way, and apply the tip of the rattling torture device to her own loins. Her moaning, panting breaths made him jealous for a moment. Then inspiration struck. Sliding his fingers up her thighs, he delved gently back into her depths, twisted his palm faceup, and resumed his curling, circling palpitations on her inner walls.
Marta screamed hoarsely, arching up off the bed, only to fall back with a convulsive shudder. Moisture drenched his hand. Removing it, he licked his skin, reveling in the flavor of her climax. She had, he noted, moved the buzzing crankman away from her body. That gave him room to lean over her. Grasping his own shaft, he rubbed it against her folds. She shivered, eyes fluttering open. A moment of alignment was all it took, then he sank into her heat, wringing a soft, appreciative moan from her.
As the mechanical toy buzzed quietly on the bed beside them, he covered her with his body, not wanting to crush her but needing to feel her curves beneath him as he moved. She encouraged him by cradling him within a warm, loving cage made from her arms and legs, by the intimacy of staring into her merry blue eyes, by the way she smiled with both corners of her lips.
Once again, he dipped his head and kissed each of those beautiful, pleasure-quirked corners. She sighed happily and stroked the drying strands of his hair. He thrust a little firmer, a little faster, and her next sigh merged with a moan. Hitching in deep, he circled his pelvis against hers, evoking a little shiver of pleasure. Need burned within him, but he was still in control.
“I love you, Zeilas,” she murmured, caressing the side of his face.
He leaned into her touch, then kissed her palm. “And I, you.”
She traded palm for lips and tongue. He picked up his pace a little, until she nipped his lower lip, pulling on it briefly, sensually, and demanded, “Faster ...”
Blood burning, he hooked his wrist under her knee, doubling up her thigh, and braced his weight on his other hand. The move curled up her pelvis, allowing him to thrust in a new position that rubbed him against that spot on her inner wall. He knew he found it when she shouted and shuddered, fingers clawing at his arms and shoulders.
His grin melted away beneath the squeezing of her flesh. Abandoning himself to his own desire, he cantered through her orgasm, then galloped into her, hard enough to make the bed frame sway, until his body bucked with blinding, muscle-tightening release. Panting as his limbs slowly relaxed, Zeilas felt her fumbling for something among the bedding. He opened the eyes he had squeezed shut just in time to see her bringing the still-rattling, silvery rod between their bodies. The tip of it rubbed against her node ... and brushed the base of his shaft.
In fact, the devious woman pressed it there, against his pleasure-sensitized flesh. Eyes wide with shock, Zeilas writhed with a second, near-instantaneous climax. His hips bucked, her back arched, and the two of them—well, mostly him—collapsed onto the bed. Exhausted, sated beyond thought, but vaguely aware his muscular frame was probably crushing her, he managed to roll to one side. Then onto his back, which allowed him to breathe in the air that had gone missing during his second, unexpected orgasm.
The buzzing of her mad, mad invention filled the quiet of the night. A click of the button spun the crank handle wildly around for a few moments, whizzing and rattling, then it slowed and stopped, silencing the infernal machine. Dropping it on the nightstand, Marta curled upright long enough to drag the blankets up over their bodies, then flopped down beside him and snuggled up to his side.
Thought came back, as the fire burned low and the oil lamps glowed. “Please ...” he murmured, licking dry lips. “Please, tell me you don’t use that as a torture device?”
She cracked up laughing, snorting and chuckling into his shoulder. He chuckled as well, though his question had been somewhat serious at its core. Humming happily, Marta snuggled closer, hooking one of her legs between his own. “Maybe. If you’re really, really good.”
Laughing, he dredged up enough energy to hug her and kiss her on the top of her still-damp head. He hadn’t expected to find love in this foreign land, but it was a good land, better than expected, with a wonderful, inventive, brilliant woman nestled in his arms. “Mmm. I’ll try to be.”
Once again, he made her laugh. She sighed happily, squeezed him, and chuckled herself to sleep. Zeilas smiled and let himself drift off as well, glad that he could make her laugh.
AURUL
ONE
Gabria watched the last of her trunks floating out the door of her bedroom. Her suite in the palace wasn’t much, just a bedroom, a combined bathing and refreshing room, and a small parlor that also served as her office, but it had been an improvement on her previous tenement. A vast improvement on her previous life, prior to the False God’s destruction. It felt odd to be leaving Guildara, but not as unsettling as she’d feared.
This alliance is worth the relocation, she reassured herself. The Aurulans were a civilized people, their kingdom long established and quite prosperous. Envoy Pells had sent back reports on the ornate architecture, rich fabrics, and abundance of jewels, fruits, and spices that formed much of the kingdom’s wealth, and the wonderful ambassadorial suite he had been assigned. They won’t stick me in a hovel. Not if they clearly want me among them so badly.
I just wish I knew more spells, she worried, entering her parlor. If they expect me to be a ... well, I’ll be a sorry one for a long while. Maybe I can arrange for lessons? It’s not as if I could take Sir Catrine with me. And more lessons in Aurulan, she added, listening to two of the Royal Guards, the mage-warriors who had turned the tide just days ago in their brief but bitter war with a would-be warrior-king to the north. She could only pick out a couple of words, they spoke so quickly and used vocabulary she hadn’t learned yet. Or I’ll be lost, trying to negotiate any treaties ... unless they want me to be lost?
“Are you ready to go, Your Highness?”
Gabria startled, for two reasons. One, she hadn’t noticed Mage-Captain Ellett enter the room, and two, his form of address confused her. Glancing around, she didn’t see her best friend Marta, the Consul-in-Chief of Guildara, in the chamber. “Uh ... I beg your pardon? Did you just call me ...?”
“Your Highness?” he repeated, clasping his hands behind his purple-and-gold-clad body. “I am informed that is your title.”
That bemused her. Mindful of the need to be tac
tful, Gabria shook her head. “My correct title is sub-Consul, or perhaps advisor. We don’t have royalty in Guildara, and that’s a royal form of address.”
“I was not referring to Guildaran conventions.” The tall, ash brown-haired man smiled slightly as her confusion deepened further. “Until His Majesty directs me otherwise, I am instructed to address you as such.”
“But ... why?” Gabria asked, still lost.
“... I think that is something best left to His Majesty to explain. Now, if you are ready to go, Your Highness, Sir Catrine had kindly offered to assist us in tandem mirror-Gating to the border. From there, it is just three more mirror-Gates to the winter palace on the Jenodan Sea.” He gestured at the open door, where her trunks had vanished. “Everything has been set up in the parlor at the end of this hall.”
The two Aurulan Guardswomen on the settee broke off their conversation and rose. Everywhere she had gone for the last three days, these two women had accompanied Gabria. It had felt almost like being treated as a prisoner, except they never stopped her from going anywhere; they just silently invited themselves along. Even into her bedchamber, though after a quick perusal each night, both women had respectfully retreated.
I wonder what they would’ve done, had I gone to the motorbarn and taken a motorhorse out for a ride? The idle speculation amused her. Her humor faded. Not that there was time for such things. I was too busy—with their help, admittedly—trying to clear the wreckage from the battlefield.
That, and attending the private oath-swearing of her friend’s marriage. Marta and Sir Zeilas were happily wed in the eyes of the Gods and the law, though the actual celebration had been deferred a couple of months, so that those who had fought would have time to let their wounds and their memories heal before enjoying any festivities associated with their leader’s marriage. Gabria didn’t know yet if she’d be coming back for that particular party, though she hoped she could.
