Of Kilted
Pleasure
Chapter
One
Once
more, she watched as he removed his tartan, folding it carefully and laying it
on the stand beside her bed. His approach familiar, quiet, and without words.
He held her face tenderly in his calloused hands, his breath gentle and
confident. Tonight, unlike so many other nights, she dreamed the two of them
were alone in her room at home, lying stripped of their clothes; naked flesh
melding into one as they joined. Often in these dreams, she would find herself
beside her imagined handsome, ruggedly dark Highlander lover in a secluded
glen, a moor with rolling fields of aromatic heather and the hardy thistle. The
last rays of a nonchalant setting orb beating orange and rouge as it began to
close its eyes to the day as dusk began to creep into her mind's vivid and
lucid apparition. He would be with her all night.
She urged
her lily-soft palms as they pressed against his bare and naked chest to feel
his heat, inviting him to warm her thoroughly; he could warm her deeply as no
man, in reality, had ever been capable of doing. His warrior heart beat
steadily upon her skin, pulsating, sending rhythmic vibrations through her
wanting form. If she closed her eyes even a slight bit more, she could feel
each pulse as it penetrated into her soul.
Softly,
only barely moving his strong long fingers, he traced along the softer form of
her breast. Erotic quivers of desire rippled over her, tiny pinpoints of
pleasure now vivid on her nude exposed flesh. She trembled with excitement, the
anticipation of his hardness pressing inward on her thigh. Gently, he moved his
right hand to drape hers to assist her with his desire for touch. She never
fought him.
Was
he indeed only an imagined lover? Would he ever manifest himself, showing her
that genuine and sustainable love does exist in a world so cruel as to have
enslaved her mind to this, her only means of escape from what others would call
reality? She had never seen his face entirely; he had never revealed it.
Perhaps he was just that, an image, a thought, or maybe he was waiting for her
to leave her true and sustainable reality for what would be a better and more fulfilling
fantasy; his idea of truth.
Their passion continued. Craig
repeatedly thrust his tongue inside her taut body, her long, muscular legs
clamped about his neck. Her deepening moans sent shivers down his spine; he
couldn't stop himself; he wouldn't stop. No sounds on earth could soothe the
man as the music she created each time he took her. She was his instrument to
hold, to play, so perfectly tuned. With each movement of her hips, another
string plucked, pulling him deeper within her; raw, delicious cries of a woman,
his woman. She gave herself entirely to the moment. Grabbing him abruptly with
both of her hands, his head near hers, his mouth open and wanting. She kissed
him hard, allowing herself to hear him pant and taste him breathing his very life
into her lungs.
Sweet, moist drops of perspiration
flowed between them as she turned upon her back, asking him for his fullness;
her request now his command. He quietly spoke in his native language words of
love as they repeated their motions; he worshipped her with his mouth, not
leaving a single inch of her passioned-craved body without his touch. He
entered her fully extended, his cock engorged, wet with excreted sweat. They
moved together in an undulated rhythm, rising, lifting, falling, holding their
breath together as he plunged devotedly over and over again. The moment's
explosion intensely increased to the point of exhaustion, yet neither man nor
woman was willing to cease their calling. The evening's hour wore the cloak of
twilight before the fire of their lust subsided and began to wane. As she
slowly opened her eyes, reality returned to herself, she sighed a mournful
breath of loneliness.
For Aria, the truth was too
tormenting to bear. For three long and enduring years, she had been the bride to
a man whose hands were brutal and unforgiving. She couldn't think of herself as
ever being able to rest assured in them. Why not fantasize about Craig now?
Hadn't he been there for her all these years, since before she was given to
that monster James McFarlane? She was now known to the village as Mrs. James
Fraser McFarlane? Wasn't her name hers anymore? No one ever called her by her
real name now; it was always "Mrs. McFarlane" or "James'
wife"; even the sound of it repulsed her. She closed her satin brown
eyes to think only of the one man who held her close and always knew what to
feel and think. He alone was her refuge now. Craig Allan Mackenzie. Though he
was only a vision, a mere apparition, he was more real to her than the
agonizing truth of being made to bed a man who she despised. Given to him some sort of property, kept alive
only to bear him a child. Would the truth ever be known of the actual cause
regarding the young Mrs. McFarlane before her? What became of her? Where had
she fallen? Was she alone when it happened? No one challenged the man upon his
statement that his first wife had simply fainted while standing upon a hilly
glen; her fall not only took her life but by good fortune, freed her from a
life with an angry bastard.
Craig, though only in her
imagination, had been with her since her early childhood. He began as she, a
child, only inches taller and a bit faster than she. Aria's clear mind could
conjure the best of stories, and these are the things that kept her patient
now. Only through her lovemaking with Craig could she withstand the physical
touch of her husband. It was Craig's words she would say and Craig's thoughts
she would have in order to wane off the pressure and the hideous breath that
met her each night. That she could imagine herself with another man was not a
sin, not in her mind, not as long as he lived captured within the confines of
her emotions and inward eye. No one would be the wiser. With his strong voice
speaking the sweetest of Scots Gaelic, she could also pretend to be far away
from the oversight of Cobb's Row and all of Gorbaldis with a million eyes and
tongues to watch and lie about her, to her. Some would brand her a witch if
they could feel what she felt each time Craig's hard fingers moved gently
between the softer lips of her groin, keeping her mind as far away from what
was indeed her existence. Even in his better moments, James could never be as
caring or as sensual a lover as Craig Allen Mackenzie had grown to be.
Photo Credit: The Scottican.com
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