were sucking each other,
but she’d learned to space the words between Aren’s thrusts and retreats. And
he seemed to like the gentle pressure of her teeth when she talked.
“I would share you to bring you greater pleasure. I don’t
grant you choice because I don’t trust any man but Tage to leave your cunt for
me to fuck.”
“Even if it pleased me to be pussy-fucked by another man?”
“You are my wife.”
They inevitably ended the argument where it began. When they
argued, Aren would leave on some errand or other. Sulking, imagining him mating
with another, Kel endured Drew’s prattling while the girl dressed her hair.
Jealousy is a bitch! One she should ignore. But this
whole courtship ritual seemed yet another means to control her. As if Aren and
every other man on Ondrican thought sex the be-all, end-all. That if a woman
believed only one man—or two—could give her pleasure, she would behave just as
he, or they, wanted. A more pleasant way of obtaining obedience than a beating,
while still gaining the upper hand.
What Aren failed to recognize was that lust was a
double-edged sword. One that she would use to free herself from this unwanted
marriage.
“There,” Drew said, patting a final curl into place. “You
look beautiful, Kel.”
Drawn from her own thoughts Kel complained, “It does little
good, Drew, to make my hair look so lovely. It’s the first thing Aren musses
when he returns.”
“Not today,” Aren announced, striding into the room, a smile
so wide it made Kel’s jaws ache. “Here.” He plopped a large box in her lap.
“Shall I pack now, Aren?” Drew seemed anxious to leave,
shifting her weight from foot to foot.
“Yes. And be sure to bring Kel’s green sarong.”
With Aren’s nod, Drew scampered away.
“Are you going to open the present?” He looked and sounded
like a kid at Gavigainm, an occasion when Amazonians exchanged presents and
feasted all day.
She stared at the package. Foil-wrapped in swirling colors
of pinks and oranges and emoln, an enormous bow festooned the lid.
“I haven’t a gift for you, Aren.”
“Why would you? It isn’t my birthday.”
“Oh! I had forgotten. Oh…how did you—?” Unwilling to let him
see how his thoughtfulness affected her, she fiddled with the bow.
“How old are you today, Flame?”
“Twenty-two—if you count the months in my mother’s womb.”
“If that is how you count on Amazonia, that is how I shall
count. Open it.”
“It’s so beautiful, I don’t want to ruin the paper.”
“Here. I’ll do it.” He produced a dagger. With a quick slice
the wrapping draped over her lap. The bright pink inside the wrapping made her
a little dizzy. Before she’d drawn a breath, Aren tucked the bow behind her
left ear.
“Leave it,” he ordered, guiding her hands and helping her
lift off the box lid.
A swirl of blue-green and red-gold fabric gleamed up at her.
“Oh my,” she sighed, lifting it up to hold against her chest. Soft as a zephyr,
it shimmered over her skin. “It’s beautiful. Tak, Aren.”
“There is more.” Digging deeper, he produced two additional
garments—one a formfitting, sleeveless vest that resembled his own black one.
The second, a pair of trousers that might cover from her navel to her knees.
Both were of a soft as silk leather-like forest green material. A pair of
matching boots appeared as if conjured by a master magician.
Stroking the soft material, she met his eager gaze. “They’re
lovely.”
“Put them on now. We’re going to the country.”
“The country? As in real horses and bare riding?” By the
Goddess, don’t sound so excited! He’ll think I’m imagining mating while we
ride.
“Yes, the country. Away from Storr’s daily questions as to
our courtship’s status. Away from vids that make me wonder what arouses you—the
ménages or me.”
You do. Kel could have told him then and there. But
deprived of choices, a woman had the right to keep some secrets.
While
but she’d learned to space the words between Aren’s thrusts and retreats. And
he seemed to like the gentle pressure of her teeth when she talked.
“I would share you to bring you greater pleasure. I don’t
grant you choice because I don’t trust any man but Tage to leave your cunt for
me to fuck.”
“Even if it pleased me to be pussy-fucked by another man?”
“You are my wife.”
They inevitably ended the argument where it began. When they
argued, Aren would leave on some errand or other. Sulking, imagining him mating
with another, Kel endured Drew’s prattling while the girl dressed her hair.
Jealousy is a bitch! One she should ignore. But this
whole courtship ritual seemed yet another means to control her. As if Aren and
every other man on Ondrican thought sex the be-all, end-all. That if a woman
believed only one man—or two—could give her pleasure, she would behave just as
he, or they, wanted. A more pleasant way of obtaining obedience than a beating,
while still gaining the upper hand.
What Aren failed to recognize was that lust was a
double-edged sword. One that she would use to free herself from this unwanted
marriage.
“There,” Drew said, patting a final curl into place. “You
look beautiful, Kel.”
Drawn from her own thoughts Kel complained, “It does little
good, Drew, to make my hair look so lovely. It’s the first thing Aren musses
when he returns.”
“Not today,” Aren announced, striding into the room, a smile
so wide it made Kel’s jaws ache. “Here.” He plopped a large box in her lap.
“Shall I pack now, Aren?” Drew seemed anxious to leave,
shifting her weight from foot to foot.
“Yes. And be sure to bring Kel’s green sarong.”
With Aren’s nod, Drew scampered away.
“Are you going to open the present?” He looked and sounded
like a kid at Gavigainm, an occasion when Amazonians exchanged presents and
feasted all day.
She stared at the package. Foil-wrapped in swirling colors
of pinks and oranges and emoln, an enormous bow festooned the lid.
“I haven’t a gift for you, Aren.”
“Why would you? It isn’t my birthday.”
“Oh! I had forgotten. Oh…how did you—?” Unwilling to let him
see how his thoughtfulness affected her, she fiddled with the bow.
“How old are you today, Flame?”
“Twenty-two—if you count the months in my mother’s womb.”
“If that is how you count on Amazonia, that is how I shall
count. Open it.”
“It’s so beautiful, I don’t want to ruin the paper.”
“Here. I’ll do it.” He produced a dagger. With a quick slice
the wrapping draped over her lap. The bright pink inside the wrapping made her
a little dizzy. Before she’d drawn a breath, Aren tucked the bow behind her
left ear.
“Leave it,” he ordered, guiding her hands and helping her
lift off the box lid.
A swirl of blue-green and red-gold fabric gleamed up at her.
“Oh my,” she sighed, lifting it up to hold against her chest. Soft as a zephyr,
it shimmered over her skin. “It’s beautiful. Tak, Aren.”
“There is more.” Digging deeper, he produced two additional
garments—one a formfitting, sleeveless vest that resembled his own black one.
The second, a pair of trousers that might cover from her navel to her knees.
Both were of a soft as silk leather-like forest green material. A pair of
matching boots appeared as if conjured by a master magician.
Stroking the soft material, she met his eager gaze. “They’re
lovely.”
“Put them on now. We’re going to the country.”
“The country? As in real horses and bare riding?” By the
Goddess, don’t sound so excited! He’ll think I’m imagining mating while we
ride.
“Yes, the country. Away from Storr’s daily questions as to
our courtship’s status. Away from vids that make me wonder what arouses you—the
ménages or me.”
You do. Kel could have told him then and there. But
deprived of choices, a woman had the right to keep some secrets.
While
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