Pagan Dreams

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  I slip into bed, almost hoping I’ll spend the night alone; though I expect Analise will come to me tiptoeing in the wee hours. If she does, I won’t deny her; the release is much too satisfying to my body. I’m not sure how would have survived these days if I didn’t have her nightly capers to take away the sting of loneliness. There might have been a time when Analise’s entrance to my bed startled me. Now it’s as much a part of my night as turning the pillow over to feel the cool side against my neck.

  I drift off to sleep wondering when she’ll wake me.

  I don’t know what time it is when I hear rustling sounds in my room. My psyche without thinking, prepares itself for Analise, but it’s not her body that climbs in beside me and snuggles next to my aroused one. Perhaps a function of my sleepy state, I’m pulled back to another time as soon as I realize who it is that’s come to take my sleep away. Without so much as a tremor of hesitation, I explore Peach’s body as if we hadn’t been estranged at all, her willingness and sweet fragrance meet my welcoming arms.

  For a few fleeting moments, no time has passed between us, no fear exists, or breach requiring repair, no Tasia, or Analise, just Peach and I, our breaths intermingling, the sweat from her body mixing with mine, our sexual energy flowing together as it so often has. She’s altogether more substantial than Analise, passion flows from her like rich burgundy.

  I’ve been missing this bliss, this full bodied sensuality. Not since Miriam have I felt so much myself, and even then, I was so broken hearted that I couldn’t be content, not like this. Every inch of me shudders as she runs her hands along my thighs. I feel sharp darting arrows in my stomach and below, as she touches my breasts, and I bask in the fact that she’s here, really here, not some invention of my fantasy.

  We roll on the bed so she lies on top of me, her breasts hang over mine, our hardened nipples play a teasing game of hide and seek. Her hot breath tickles my neck as she kisses me, and then moves with her as she moves her head to the center of my torso.

  She lays her head against my throbbing belly and pauses for a moment there. I feel a sadness closing in around us both as she cries softly while I stroke her hair. I know she’s missed me.

  Then with tears dripping, she continues to my slit below, her pressing tongue finding a hard clit to suck. She knows how I love her teasing where my labia part, just at the top where the ring pierces me. A single finger in my cunt and my juice flows freely. I tightened, gasp and cum, with a shocking rude jolt, like I haven’t come in weeks—as if I’ve only been living half of my sex. (I realize that something important slips between the cracks with Analise.)

  For a moment I don’t even wonder why she’s here—of course, she’s here—until my cumming ceases and I have time to think again.

  I want to return the favor to her, but my mind takes charge of the lust, and implores me to question her. Peach reads me. I marvel that the natural intuition between lovers does not easily disappear. “Shush,” she says before I speak, and she climbs back to my face and presses her mouth to mine.

  I laugh, feeling with my hands how wet her pussy is. I play with it as kisses cover her lips, tiny toying amusing ones. She bites my lips, pulling them with her teeth. She presses her cunt against my hand and fucks it as one, two, then three fingers breach the opening. I wish I could get all of myself inside her, not just my whole fist, but my whole body. I want to be that close to her.

  She tenses against me for what seems like an eternity. Her cunt throbs on my penetrating fingers with a ruthless hearty fervor. Oh! How I’ve missed this voluptuary, this siren sensualist! How I’ve missed passion, traded this hedonistic rapture for something so intangible that I’m often not certain it’s even happened at all. I want Peach and I to go on forever; I want her pulsing cunt beating at my hand, her raw need-filled body clamoring at mine without stopping.

  I want to cry when her orgasm finally disappears.

  Before we sleep, I undo the neat bow at her neck and pull Tasia’s ribbon away. Peach doesn’t object, she seems more intent on wriggling her ass end into my crotch, so that I can surround her with my arms as we drift off to sleep.

  A commotion outside the bedroom door jerks me awake. The sun, well up in the sky, brightens the room with a sweet cheeriness, though the odious sounds in the hallway turn my stomach instantly. Peach jumps out of the bed and scurries to dress. Just a shift is all she wore, and all that leaves with her.

  Not a single word passes between us. I feel the fear inside her knowing this visit was unauthorized by the mistress of the house, who’s now returned. Peach slips out the door with furtive glances at either side of the hallway, and I breathe easier when she’s made a safe escape. I hear no instantaneous conflagration that would occur if she were caught. But still fearing for her, I bolt from the room myself to hear better. To my relief, in the now quiet house, all I hear is the soft sound of a door closing.

  In my room, I refuse to go back to bed without Peach. She’s left her fragrance here, and I’ll likely be content to enjoy that until I can’t distinguish it from any other fragrance that greets my nose. I pick up the blue ribbon from the floor; her one time collar, now just a wrinkled piece of grosgrain. Not willing to have this found inside my room, I pocket it when I dress, intending to toss it somewhere downstairs where it won’t do Peach any harm.

  At lunch, we smile furtively at each other. I pass her briefly. “Were you caught?” I mouth quietly.

  She shakes her head “no”, and we exchange relieved smiles.

  I can tell that things are about to happen within these walls. The Bed and Breakfast rooms fill quickly with more vacationing guests, and those who are looking forward to Tasia’s midsummer celebration. I ignore most goings on; it seems I have my own drama to play out and have no time for the other madness. Though from what I can tell, the other revelers are not seeing the impending event through the same dark eyes I do. The lightness in their mood hardly matches the dire pictures that constantly come to my mind.

  My night with Peach colors the whole day with lust, remembrance, and fear of another rude abandonment. A melancholy sadness takes me away when I see Peach collared again, traipsing alongside Tasia. I rebuff Analise twice, her insubstantial airiness too frivolous for me after making love to Peach.

  “I’ll be with you later,” I tell her sternly, as I pat her bottom, making sure to feel the end of the dildo I pressed inside her days ago.

  She sighs sorrowfully, though I hardly think I’m breaking her heart the way mine was broken. There have been few loving words between us; we’re affectionate sisters, but this is not a grand love affair, and she knows that as well as I do.

  Late in the afternoon, however, Analise scampers to my side while I’m in the garden reading a magazine.

  “C’mon, you have to see this,” she says, pulling on me. Despite my resistance, I finally follow her back down the basement stairs to the cellar we explored the night before. But instead of going into the stone chapel, she shoves me back toward the other door, the rounded one that we’ll have to stoop to get under.

  “Hurry,” she says anxiously.

  We enter the wine cellar. I can tell this more by the dank odor than by sight, for it’s nearly black inside the place, especially when the door closes behind us.

  “Hurry, I hear them coming,” she says, pulling at me to follow her.

  “Who’s coming?” I ask.

  “Shush!”

  I hear a shuffling on the stairs, as Analise leads me along a narrow aisle between two rows of wine racks. I feel the dusty bottles, and grab at the wooden frame to keep my balance. Where the wine rack ends, there’s a hole in the mortared stone wall.

  “Down here,” she whispers very quietly. She pulls me to the floor of the wine cellar where she shows me a long slit of a hole between two stones. At first we can see nothing; but as we peer at the murky darkness on the other side of the wall, the stone chapel gets brighter, and we watch as several people appear out of the shadows.

  “Shush,” s
he says silently, putting her finger to her mouth like a child playing hide and go seek.

  We sit on a packed dirt floor—I imagine getting terribly dirty in the process. But I can see by the excitement on Analise’s face that this is much too thrilling a sight to miss. We’re squashed in the corner, both trying to see through the scant opening. We take turns, though Analise seems content to let me have the best angle. I surmise that she has hidden here before, watching what takes place beyond.

  The voices on the other side are difficult to hear until the women move directly in front of us, and in front of the stone table. Now their conversation carries well through our peek hole.

  To my horror and amazement, I stare in rapt attention, as Tasia appears with Peach following close behind her. Two other women follow them like body guards. I see Peach’s muted passions written on her face, and in her brow. Beads of sweat appear on her neck and across her chest where her sundress is scooped out.

  “Pull off the dress,” Tasia says.

  Peach starts to comply as if the command was for her, letting a strap drop from her shoulder. She’s quickly stopped by two pairs of hands, lifting the shift from her body from behind. She stands naked for Tasia, wearing only a leather collar. I think of the ribbon so casually left in my room this morning; this more definitive piece replaces it with a glaringly obvious message of submission.

  “You wish to redeem yourself?” Tasia asks Peach.

  “For what?” Peach answers bewildered by the ordeal unfolding in her presence. I see her flushed flustered expression, knowing this is a surprise to her.

  “For what? You think I don’t know everything that goes on in this house, even when I’m gone. A little lusty rendezvous with your whining weak-kneed lover. I would think you could be more inventive than to slip into bed at night for a stolen tryst.”

  “How did you know?” Peach asks.

  “Who cares how I know, my dear, would it really matter when the truth is written all over your face, when your eyes look too satisfied to have been without sex for an entire night? When you hardly have the energy to take care of my needs?” She adds with a vengeful twist.

  Peach looks crestfallen.

  “We have an agreement, Samantha Clarisse. I won’t let you break it. You owe me for this gross indiscretion.”

  Peach flashes from resignation to defiance to resignation again, as if she’s too mixed up to know how to feel. “Yes, ma’am,” she says at last.

  I’d charge right through this stone wall in her defense. Seeing her yield without any kind of fight makes me nauseous. That she’s become so weak-kneed makes me furious. I’d scold her myself now, if I could have her eye to eye. But despite my silent protests, I know she’s walking some mysterious path that I cannot see, even as I’ve tried to for the last three weeks.

  Tasia turns in dramatic style with her black skirts swishing around her legs. Then turning back, her eyes light with some demonic fire and burn intently into Peach. “It’s probably just as well,” she says, “I haven’t yet whipped you thoroughly. Earning it the way you have, I’ll have no regrets, though I’m certain you will. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

  Say something! I scream to her silently.

  But Peach waits just seconds, “No, ma’am.” Her voice is quiet, her eyes droop without even the slightest fire she had just minutes ago.

  It’s this compliant woman I find so difficult to recognize. The emotions that normally burn so fiercely within her are not just subdued; she’s become an eerie calm monster, just a mere reflection of herself.

  Tasia eyes her from head to toe and side to side, making a thorough examination as if there were important decisions to be made. Though I’ve ignored the baton in Tasia’s hand, I cannot now, as she taps on Peach’s inner thighs with sharp quick motions.

  “Spread your legs,” she says, as Peach jerks, then obeys, even as she recoils in pain.

  To my surprise, from my several feet away, I can see the dampness between Peach’s thighs. From this angle, the torch on the wall lends the perfect light, bouncing off my lover’s flesh and giving away her secrets.

  “Here in the center. Spread her wide and tie her so she can’t move. She’s not yet earned the right to grace my table.” Tasia nods to the two women, who in ritualistic fashion, each take one of Peach’s limp arms. Tasia with her baton in hand pulls leather straps down from some hiding places in the ceiling, securing my lover’s arms above her head. The straps are fixed to pulleys, so that drawn up tightly, her smooth taut body seems horribly extended. The women affix manacles to Peach’s ankles, which are fastened to eye hooks in the stone floor. I’m surprised by these devices; I hadn’t seen them when I was here the day before.

  My own anger quiets as I view this passive scene—apparently I’m the only one who finds it the abomination that it is. Even Analise strains to see, looking at the scene as if it’s some carnival sideshow. Yet for all my repugnance at this act, I cannot escape the strange beauty before me as Peach hangs waiting for what will be some further horror to commence. The muscles and curves I know so well look oddly different in bondage. I find myself wanting to get closer still, to touch her, to love her, to drop between her wide open legs and make a feast of her while she’s captive and unable to respond.

  I gaze lustfully, as I feel Analise’s hand press against my cunt. “This excites you,” she whispers, “me too.”

  “Shush,” I mouth to her, annoyed. I’m not amused by her naughty schoolgirl attitude. This seems far too significant a matter to giggle about.

  Her hand remains at my cunt; though I might decry her silliness, I don’t suggest that she quit fondling me. I even rock lewdly against her fingering hand as the shame of getting off this way will wait for later. I know I could come in an instant.

  Hearing the lash fall against Peach’s body, I wince and turn away. I start to cry, hearing her distressed whimpers. But too fascinated not to look, I peek excitedly, then back away again, and push Analise aside so that I finally watch in rapt attention.

  The strap Tasia wields is frightening, though likely not more damaging than the belt Peach used on me. By the looks of its two inch width and three foot length, it appears to be a razor strop, no doubt of antique origin. What amazes me is the fury of the punishment, the strop falling with lightning speed again and again across Peach’s back side. The woman concentrates on the soft flesh of her bottom, but does not forget to wield the ugly thing against her shoulders at least a half dozen times. Later she aims low, at her thighs. The thighs will burn the most, I recall from my own recollections of such treatment. Peach concurs, as her distressed wails rise into the warm close air with a haunting sound I’ll not easily forget. My own tears and my lust both continue. My desire shames me, but I won’t give it up.

  After what seems far too long, Tasia stops for a moment to appraise her submissive. Then laying down the strap, she picks up her baton again.

  “How delightful it will be to leave marks all over you, Samantha Clarisse,” she says. She lets the thin reed-like instrument fly, and it lands squarely on the center of Peach’s punished rear cheeks. Tasia flogs her with the baton over the same skin that is already warm and red and tender from the strop. But then, without warning the bitch stops again, and peers around, as if she’s flustered by something.

  “Analise,” she says. “The girl’s supposed to be here.” The look on her face is something akin to waking up out of a sound sleep, not knowing where you are.

  The fairy sprite next to me jumps, her hand pulling away from my almost orgasmic crotch.

  “She’s likely with Cassidy,” one of the attendant women says.

  “She needs to see this, go get her now. I told her I wanted her here, the little strumpet.”

  The other woman abruptly turns and dashes out of the chapel, her feet racing up the stairs.

  “I have to go,” Analise whispers to me. She shuffles around me so loudly that I think we’ll both be discovered, though the sounds of Tasia, berating Pe
ach in the other room, keep us safe enough for the moment.

  “You stay here,” she murmurs to me, and I watch in the dim light as she slips silently out the door. I don’t even hear her light feet take the stairs.

  “I have a treat for you, Samantha Clarisse, something I think you’ll find especially arousing. You are aroused, aren’t you, my slut?” She presses her fingers at Peach’s cunt and pulls them away. “Oh my, you are a sloppy cunt. Lick it,” she purrs, holding her wet hand to her captive’s lips.

  I can remember the fragrance of Peach’s cunt as I watch my lover take her own juices from the woman’s ring-bedecked hand. Tasia draws her hand away when she hears the sound of steps on the cellar stairs. Moments later the attendant and Analise appear in the glowing light.

  “Where have you been?” Tasia greets the woman who surprises me appearing in a fresh flowered dress, the dirty one no doubt safely stashed away.

  “I’m sorry,” Analise says, though she doesn’t answer the woman’s question.

  “I told you I wanted you here, perhaps I should string you up.”

  As docile as Peach, Analise hangs her head. I wonder that the tentativeness in the girl’s manner isn’t just a show, a show she puts on very well. It’s a portrait of surrender that is commonplace to Analise, as if she’s been brought up to have her eyes demurely lowered and a tender pout on her lips.

  “You see the way I treat those that are deceitful with me?” Tasia says, turning her glance toward her hanging, well-whipped submissive.