1. The Hothouse Flower


    Date: 9/14/2015, Categories: Historical, Author: FeliciaGreene, Rating: , Source: LushStories

    open sex, attempting to copy her own practiced movements. I am rewarded with a pealing cry; the woman lifts my head with her free hand, gently brushing my lips against hers. We begin grinding against each other's hands, finding a sensuous rhythm in place of clumsy eagerness. I take one of her breasts with my free hand; I squeeze it savagely, enough for it to turn a vivid red, enough for her to moan and bite her lip. 'Harder,' she whimpers, and I smile. I curl my fingers against her inner walls with heightened energy, squeezing her breast even more forcefully than before. She responds in kind, sinking her teeth into my neck, and delves so deeply inside me with those skilled fingers that I scream like a cat in heat. I imagine a man watching us, some shepherd stumbling across two deviant maidens crying out their lust like animals, and the thought excites me further. I moan more openly, grind more deeply against the woman's talented hand. The rain is falling faster now; it is welcome, cool against my burning skin. I feel the woman's slick flesh tighten around my fingers. I move my hand more quickly. My own peak is nearing; I feel it at the base of my stomach. I cannot tell her - even now, after all my courage and all my recklessness, I cannot be so vulnerable. Instead I bite my lip, concentrating on the painfully sweet sensations radiating through my body. They grow, they reach for every nerve and clench it... oh, God . I hear her come; a sweet succession of unrestrained moans ...
    and cries as her body convulses. My own peak is darker and harder. I remain silent, shuddering with almost unbearable pleasure as my body sings. I feel tears in my eyes. Everything is white. * I do not know how long I have been here; the sun has sank, but not considerably. All I do know is that my lover lies sleeping on the grass, while I lie awake. I am already planning my excuses to Grassonet; an inopportune tumble into muddy grass, a detour into the greenhouses. I have no wish to wake my sleeping partner, but I would like to know her - wait. She is muttering something in her sleep. It sounds like gibberish, but as I listen more closely it coalesces into... German? Not classical German, not the German I have heard at home. A dialect, almost. Maybe Austrian? Austrian. A hard lump forms in my throat. What was the name, the cruel newspaper name that Alain had been cackling over? The Austrian whore. I look at the woman again, more shrewdly this time, with a sense of mounting horror. Yes, her teeth are too white for a servant, and her skin as well; too white, too clean, too perfumed. Her hands are too soft, and her shift is of linen so finely woven and closely sewn that no servant girl could hope to own it. I look over to her dress, so unthinkingly discarded in the mud. Even through the rain I can see the quality of the fabric. There is a wig, too, sodden by now, and underneath it I can see something shining. A pearl - a string of pearls. Each pearl is as large as my thumbnail. ...
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