Alouette - Sex Stories

Alouette

... depended on it. He peeled back her arm. Her beauty made him flinch. “Mademoiselle, you are dying!” He muttered as the girl, eyes shut, sang in oblivion to her peril. He rubbed her hands and face, breathed on her, trying to thaw her dreadful icy pallor. Without a further thought, he wrapped her in his coat, buried her amongst his produce and spun his cart round. Back toward his cabin. Once inside, he wrapped the girl in all the furs he could find and put a weeks’ worth of wood on fire. However, when she stopped singing, he knew this wasn’t enough. He could only find the tiniest thread of a pulse on her wrist. Was that just the insensitivity of his toughened fingers? He was no doctor, but he trusted his instincts. He needed to raise the girl’s temperature, and quickly. He heated buckets of water in anything he could lay his hands on, and filled his old tin tub. Then – trembling with the sheer impropriety of what he had to do next – he unfastened her snow-sodden clothing. Quickly, he unlaced and tugged off the frozen layers as gently as he could, unwrapping the delicate creature’s luminous skin to the warming room. The girl felt alarmingly inert as he pulled her dress off over her head, unlaced her corsets and peeled off her stockings. Finally, taking a deep breath for courage, he removed her cold, wet undergarments. Distressingly chilled in his arms, he carried her over to the tub and lowered her into it, quickly covering her pale nakedness with a tarpaulin. He doused her neck ...

... and shoulders in more warm water until she was roused enough to start shivering. Renewed, soft humming encouraged him and he took her out, wrapped in the canvas, and dried her vigorously all over. He watched the ceiling while rubbing blood back into her, as if averting his eye might protect him from the mental pictures his hands made of the forms beneath the stiff cloth – the tempting resilience of her curves and clefts – before quickly wrapping her back up in the furs and laying her by the fire. Then all he could do was wait, shake the echo of her body from his limbs, and the afterimage of her nakedness from her eyes. Despite his precautions, he had seen between her legs. The petals of her sex were shockingly bare. This woman might look like an innocent little bird, but she wore the professional grooming of a whore. Her singing stopped again, fading out as she drifted into sleep, and Cephas sat poised beside her until her breathing was even. He was lost in her face, so smooth and so perfect it made him feel itchy with hairiness. His scar throbbed in warning, as if to remind him of their differences; forbidding him even the dream of her. Soon he grew pragmatic, if she was to live she would live, he could do nothing more. He headed back to town with his cart, his hulking frame at a lumbering trot to get there before the markets shut. With a bit of luck he might just make the bathhouse too before it closed, he suddenly felt desperately unclean. He left the girl a note, which he ...