Charlotte Boyett-Compo- WIND VERSE- Prisoners of the Wind

Prologue

His hands were gentle but insistent upon her heated body.
His fingers were sure and knowing and where they stroked, intense pleasure
followed in the wake. Kneading the muscles of her shoulders, those educated
fingers elicited a response that lulled her, eased her tension and made her
feel as though she was melting into the mattress.

Working his way across her upper back, he increased the
pressure slightly until she began to purr like a kitten. It was heavenly—his
touch—and she welcomed the feel of his hot flesh upon her naked back. As he
massaged the column of her spine, seemingly to manipulate each vertebra, she
sighed deeply, feeling the stress falling away.

Lower that touch went until it fanned out along the small of
her back, his fingers spreading outward with sure, deft strokes that pressed
her downward and left her flesh tingling.

But when those strong fingers slid to her buttocks, she
tensed, quickly drawing in her breath.

“Relax, wench,” he whispered, leaning forward so his breath
was warm against her ear.

He was sitting on his haunches between her spread thighs and
as he bent over her, she could feel the weight and the hardness of his cock
dragging along the folds of her vagina. She shivered and groaned, moisture
flooding the area like dew forming upon rose petals.

It was his low chuckle that eased the stiffness of her
muscles and she did as he ordered, though it took every ounce of her willpower
to relax against the feel of that enormous cock now lying between the cleft of
her ass.

“You are wet, Marin,” he whispered, and touched his hot
tongue to the spiral of her ear.

Goose bumps ran down her spine as his heated breath joined
the invasion of his tongue inside her ear. Her womb tightened and she could not
stop the moan of pleasure that trilled from her lips.

He laved her ear, the tip of his practiced tongue thrusting
ever so gently inside the entrance to her auditory canal before it moved around
the perimeter from just beneath the helix to the lobe, upon which he lightly
clamped his teeth and softly worried the tender flesh.

“Merciful Alluvial,” she whimpered.

“Wicked warrior,” he corrected, and his hot lips trailed
from the side of her neck to her shoulder blade then on to the cervical curve
of her spine.

His rough tongue dragged downward over the thoracic curve
and into the hollow of the lumbar region. There it lingered just above the
division of her ass, flicking lightning thrusts at the sensitive concavity,
swirling a pattern of lazy figure eights that slowly lowered toward her
opening.

Marin grabbed handfuls of the coverlet beneath her,
anticipating the sweet invasion of that sinful mobile mass of muscular tissue
so close to her anus. When her midnight lover sank his teeth gently into her
left buttock, she shuddered and cried out.

“Lie still,” he ordered, his tone brooking no rejection of
his demand.

She found herself panting, sweat oozing along her upper lip.
She ached for him to stab her with that hot tongue, to lap at the puckered rim
of her anal opening. His fingers were spreading her cheeks, opening her for his
steady assault. She was quivering, moaning, waiting…

Yet it was not his tongue that delved into her nether region
but the long, purposeful breadth of a finger. Barely grazing the inner fold of
flesh, he pivoted the stiff digit from side to side, his fingernail scarcely
inside her.

“Please!” she begged, and tried to lift her ass to impale
upon his questing finger.

“No,” he denied, and as one hand held her pressed firmly to
the bunk, that wicked finger delved slowly deeper until she felt the knuckles
of his hand graze her rump.

Seated firmly inside her, he slowly twisted his finger,
pressing downward gently until he seemed to find the spot for which he had been
searching.

Marin writhed beneath him, silently pleading with him to end
this delicious torture.

With his finger still buried to the hilt within her rectum,
his thumb slithered like a living creature into the hot and dripping slit of
her cunt and pulled upward as though he could make middle finger and thumb meet
inside her.

The sensation of those digits pressing toward one another,
moving out a ways and then going in again, sent Marin over the edge of
endurance. Heat was building in her womb, an intense itch was crawling through
her lower belly. Her body was trembling as though with the ague and when the
bright flash of passion flared then flooded her pelvis, she screamed her
release, pressing her face deep into the coverlet to shut out the sound.

“Mine,” he said, and withdrew his thumb to touch—and
tease—the engorged swell of her clitoris. “And mine you will always be!”

* * * * *

Marin sat bolt upright on the hard cot upon which she had
been thrashing and stared into the darkness with wide, glazed eyes. The dream
had been so real, so intense it was hard for her to accept that her midnight
lover was but a figment of her fevered desire, virginal though it was.

A sheen of perspiration covered her upper chest and trickled
from beneath the pendulous weight of her aching breasts. Her heart was
pounding, her blood thundering through her veins. She was quivering like a leaf
in a stiff breeze and she felt hot, her skin pebbled. That mysterious region
between her legs felt heavy and it throbbed in a way that made her squirm.
Wrapping her arms around herself, she realized it had been nothing more than a
dream. She groaned with frustration and drew her knees up into the protection
of her encircling arms. There was wetness between her thighs—she could feel it,
smell it—and a barren hopelessness deep in her womb.

“Another bad dream?” one of the other girls asked.

“Aye,” Marin whispered, tears easing down her cheeks.

“Try to go back to sleep, Marin. Tomorrow will be a long
day,” someone advised.

For the remainder of the night, Marin stared into the
darkness, despair building in her with every ragged breath she took.

How, she wondered, could she be so deeply in love with a
phantom man she had never met?