It’s not about what’s missing in our lives, it’s about what’s yet unexpressed.
That is how I feel about erotica/love as a topic for reading and writing.
This is a story for freedom. Freedom to burst into flame.
Once, I used to dream, about a lover like the one in the following story. In fact, my dreams were so real that I wondered if I was actually experiencing another lifetime while I slept. I’ve always been a believer in re-incarnation. After all, nature is all about birth, death and re-birth.
When I met my current life partner, I remembered. He walked into my life and brought a passion that was instant and consuming that 21 years later, we are still engulfed in flames. We had been together before. He knew my body and I knew his. Although we are still discovering each other, there is a thread of our past that is still present between us.
It is why I am connected with a certain period of British history. It is why leaving each other has proven impossible even when we are at great odds. There was simply no death to our love, or the way we make each other feel. Often tempestuous, our love affair keeps me writing erotica as an expression of what can be when two people are in tune with each other.
I need a man who can engage my mind, as much as my body. I need to admire his humor. I need intensity.
This story draws from my experiences and my lingering memories of the past. In some ways it is fiction. In others, if we agree that we are all one and that within our DNA is stored every occurrence through time, then this is a true story. Enjoy.
I had a dream of you. A dream of verdant fields and tumultuous skies.
A dream of the days when you rode a black horse and wore robes that swept along the ground as you walked the rocky hillsides of your kingdom. The days when the wind whipped your hair about you, your face set in stone, your body tense from battle.
Those were the days that your sword never left your side, even when we slept, wrapped in furs upon your royal bed.
Those were the days that left me shivering as you slipped out of bed, leaving me for weeks and months, waging war in no-man’s land, the warmth of your hand a long forgotten luxury. You always rode away with a last look toward the window of my chamber. You knew that I’d be standing there, obscured by the frost on the glass, tears upon my breast.
It was your parting gift, that look of love, both of us knowing that it might be the last.
Months of loneliness left me roaming the forests with basket in hand, gathering roots for the tinctures I would make, for the wounds you would bring home. Long days of solitude left me pounding seeds with my mortar and pestle, forcing oils that I would infuse with herbs. Oils that I hoped to warm in my hands before I touched the knotted muscles of your broad back, muscles that would jump to my touch, my hands worshiping your sculpted arms.
I had to be prepared.
There was never word of when you would return. And every day I would train my ear upon the silence of the early morning, desperate for the sound of your mount entering the courtyard, snorting when you pulled him up short, your voice, deep and gruff, more precious than life itself.
These are the things I remember from the past; how powerful your hands looked as they held firm to the reins—those hands that had killed. The way you stared me down, from across the table, your eyes promising everything I had longed for. Your hair upon your shoulders, black as a raven’s feather, tangled from months on the road.
The serious contemplation on your face while you paced your private rooms, your shirt starkly white against the olive skin of your chest, your feet bare—your riding leathers stretched over the muscular power of your thighs.
These images, even centuries could not erase. Your dark beauty has held me captive for these long and barren years—a torture I wouldn’t do without.
If you had followed me to the life I lead now, I wonder what you would remember of me.
Why have you not followed my love?
We promised. We shed blood to seal our pact. We kissed until our lips were raw. And yet, you are not here. Would you remember my golden hair, spilling to the small of my back, where your hand would brush with a gentleness that belied its own power?
Would you remember how my lips traced along your war scarred chest, innocent kisses placed in wicked places as my mouth found you hard and desperate for the wet of my tongue?
Would you remember that I cried tears of happiness when you growled your pleasure as I took your cock further on each plunge of my practiced mouth?
Would you remember that your hands would knot in my hair, that you called me your angel, the best part of you, your beloved?
Those were the words I had waited for, and the fierce look in your eyes as you watched me please you—my knees upon the pillow you had placed on the cold stone of your chamber floor, my breasts spilling out of the of the silk chemise you had brought me from France, my pussy swollen and wet from the filthy words you spoke.
Your obsessive love for me was the panacea for the way you f*cked me with every ounce of your being, your hands around my throat, your hips an unforgiving machine, your tears hot on my cheek as you lay spent in my arms.
I lie in the darkness of my room and wonder where you are? There is no pill for the pain of your desertion. There is no knife sharp enough to cut the misery from my soul.
No-one but I saw the tenderness beneath your stern demeanor. No-one but I knew the man who would smile softly as he watched me unwrap his generous gifts from abroad. No-one but I was privy to the gentleness of your voice. What the world saw was a man in charge of his country.
Who I saw was a man broken open by the scent of my love.
I was the innocence, you had lost quite young. I was the rose in a battlefield soaked in blood. I was the only portal to your un-jaded self.
You said you would need me until the sun forgot how to rise over the horizon.
Well, the sun is still rising, the moon is still governing the tides, stars are still dying, rains still fall quietly on the plains.
But your touch is lost to me and the man who loves me now does not understand the cold of my soul. I am the lady of a great house now, I have everything you once had, the wealth, the secure place in society, the emptiness.
Have you found a new love through the caverns of time, someone who captured your heart while you traveled the in-between spaces of lifetimes meant for me? When you dream, do you not find remembrances of me, do you not cry out my name anymore? I still cry yours, I still wake to find my face stained with tears. I still want this.
I want to hear you turn the lock on my chamber door, to feel the rush of adrenaline that wakes me from a restless sleep.
I want to hear your voice as you whisper my name, calling me your queen, even though I am your mistress and we can never hold hands in the light of day.
I want to hear your cloak fall to the floor, as you strip for me, first your shirt—and let my hands roam the hardness of your cock through your leathers.
I want to see the swell of your chest, the strength of your shoulders and the honed outline of your arms, power earned by years of brutality that we never speak about.
I want to hear your voice demand I remove my shift, but not all at once, you want me to part it first, you want to see the dark of my nipples tease your appetite for what is not yours. Your hands reaching for the first touch, the first soft pull turning rough—my voice caught in my throat.
I want to remember the feel of your lips on the inside of my wrist, the soft of my inner arm, the kisses there wicked because they spoke of where your tongue would surely follow.
I want to feel you standing behind me, my breasts heavy in your hands, your intent pressed hard into my back, your breath on my neck, your teeth biting into me when I try to wrench away, your voice commanding me to stay still.
I want to feel once more the thrill of fear as you tie me to the post of your bed, to watch you throw back your wine and have you feed me drops of mine on your fingertips–knowing that what came next would require faith in your love for me.
I want to hear you say that you have never enjoyed a woman as much as you enjoy me, and to feel the cool of Chinese silk as you blindfold me. Your words soothing, your voice dangerous, your resolve to have everything you want palpable in the heat of the room.
I want to know that your sinful smile will play upon your face as you tease me with first a deep and hungry kiss, then a soft descent to my neck, where your teeth will leave their mark, then the wet of your mouth on my nipples, sucking until I cry out and asking me if I want more.
I always wanted more. Your skill of pleasure liberally tainted with pain was my addiction.
I want the exquisite torture of your mouth traveling along my side, your beard tickling my young skin, your tongue licking the warmth of my belly, your hands parting my legs as you sink to your knees to find my sex. I want to know the long moments before you’d kiss the inside of my thighs, my legs now quivering, your fingers in a tight grip of my tightly pursed nipples, pulling, hurting, then soothing, your tongue tracing its way to my heat.
I want to hear you say that my pussy smells like the finest clover honey, that first lick of my clit like a butterflies kiss. It always left me panting, begging you to release me, begging to have my hands free so I might touch your cock, might be allowed to my knees before you.
I want to feel your tongue grow forceful, to feel it within my folds, to have my clit pulled by those forbidden lips, to have your tongue thrust deep inside me as I screamed my release.
Before you untied me, you would always press your mouth to mine once more, and ask me to taste my orgasm on your tongue—what a wicked man you were.
I want to know my surrender as you’d lift me in arms that shook with desire to the luxury of your bed.
I want to prowl on hands and knees to the edge of the bed, where you’d be standing waiting for my tongue to circle slowly along the velvety skin of your manhood, my lips soft along your length, your groans my reward. I want to hear you call me names, I want to hear you beg once more, my breath hot, my tongue snaking its way home.
You liked that I had no shame, you liked that I blushed while I turned around, so you could see every bit of my pretty sex.
I want to know the savagery of your skill. I want to feel you f*ck me like that again, deep, forceful f*cking that left your bed soaked, to hear you roar when I tightened around you and to feel the heat of your love inside me.
I was once your safe harbor and you the elegance in my harsh medieval world, until you were served up cold on the end of your enemy’s sword. And I could only grieve in the privacy of the cold, wintery woods.
All I know now is that waiting for you is like the slow drumming of an approaching army. The sound of inevitable death.
I wake one day from my familiar dream of you. My habit of wandering the gardens in the early morning mist is a respite for my broken heart. The ruins of an old garden wall take me swiftly to a memory of another garden, a stolen look, a stirring of a long forgotten walk. But today’s meditation is broken by the sound of soft whistling, a song so familiar that my heart begins to pound like the wings of a dove caught against the glass.
I walk faster to investigate, the song, a favorite at your court—of Tristan and Isolde, hammered into my soul.
You stand there, bricks and trowel in hand, unaware.
I approach, skin on fire, there is no mistake, as you turn to me and smile—your eyes hold the secret. There is strength in your hands, youthful virility in your stance. You are the lion lying in wait for the elegant gazelle.
There is a moment of confusion in your gaze. I wait. I’ve waited for so long.
“I’m Sarah.” I extend my hand. Your face, intense, beautiful, registers the promise you once made.
By ancient habit you fall to one knee. You bow your head.
“My lady.” You say, and wait for the touch that will seal us to each other once more.
Author: Mahinn Ali Khan
Editor: Ashleigh Hitchcock