Alouette - Sex Stories

Alouette

... hoped, would help when she awoke. # “Eat.” Alouette blinked swimming vision at the childish handwriting, scrawled in charcoal on the floor. The hovel around her strobed yellow from an enormous fire. Her head throbbed, her mouth papery. She passed out again. Time passed in a flicker, and suddenly a lump of granite, an oddly familiar one, was poised above her. Her lips felt a cup of warm water nudged cautiously to them, the liquid filled her with a swell of wellbeing, immediately trickling from her eyes. The granite smiled. Blackness. A cold draught stirred her, and she lifted her head to a slamming door. Outside there was the sound of chopping. An enormous pot of water bubbled. Then he appeared, a block of a man with an armload of timbers. He looked chipped from the mountain itself, dark hair and eyes, and a weathered beauty to him. Half way to diamond. “Rock,” she croaked. He jumped, dropped his pile and ran over to her, scooping up a cup of water on the way. “What was that, Little Bird?” he whispered, gravelly, as she drank. He dabbed her mouth with his sleeve. He smelled of smoke and ice. “Rock,” she said again. He shook his head. “Cephas.” His smile turned the scar across his cheek into a question mark. “Who are you?” “I am…“ With an implosion of shock, Alouette noticed the softness of the furs all over her body. Her naked body. She widened her eyes at her saviour, and he flushed, as if reading her mind. The embarrassment said it all. Alouette sighed off her shock, ...

... leaving behind it an odd sensation. A very pleasurable one. What did it matter? This could not be real. You could not fall from a coach, in the middle of nowhere, and be rescued by your fantasy lover. She smiled and reached out a hand, stroking her fingers along that question mark. Alouette was dying. One more protective dream to smooth her passage to eternity. # Cephas had never seen this expression on a woman before, certainly not a woman in his bed. He wondered if it was just the reflection of the fire in her eyes, this lust. A delirium, surely. Her hand stroked his face and it felt like a memory, it felt right. Without a thought, he kissed it. No. Her palm felt too hot against his lips, and her cheeks were too crimson. This was a fever. It had to pass. Or not. Her life was in the balance. The grimmest of ironies, fever from cold. “Little Bird–” he said before her hot lips silenced his, and her arms coiled around his neck. Bewitched, he couldn’t help himself against that kiss, and had to respond but she was so soft it was like trying to kiss the sunrise. Her voice hummed a yearning little song of a sigh as she pulled him toward her and he took her in his arms. He told himself this was what she needed, maybe. A simple injection of life. Her kisses grew demanding, he felt power stirring in her. She threw off the furs and pulled at his clothes, gleaming at him as he took in the fire lit upturn of her breast, the sweep of her belly, the willowy strength of her legs and the plump ...