In the Witching Hour

She stood in front of the window and looked out over the gardens. It had turned midnight in the city, the witching hour, yet it was still eerily light. The snow lay, its covering a thick blanket over everything. It had become perfect the world, a smooth white cover pulled over the reality of a bleak uneventful landscape. The trees, spooky and beautiful, highlighted with their white accents as they reached for the sky. Plants turned into sculptures, ethereal nymphs and dryads in the half light. The moonlight magnified by the snow, infinite endless white.

Tonight it was a winter wonderland of possibilities, there was magic in the air. As she listened she heard hope whispering in the moonlight, tormenting her senses, calling her name as she fingered the silver necklace that lay between her breasts.

She was naked, except for her high heels and the necklace, her curvy body almost as pale as the snow itself. She leant forward against the glass, the cold hitting her skin and making her shiver as she half felt and half dreamed. Her nipples hardened instantly in response to the intrusion of cold on her senses. She inhaled deeply, breathing in the heady smell of vanilla that pervaded the room. Sucking in her stomach she was delighting in her body's response at the same time as she wanted to withdraw from the sensation of cold. She could almost feel Jack Frost laying his icy fingers against her sensitive flesh.

The world outside was so quiet, peaceful, unspoilt. In the background the music played, the haunting strains of the violin filling the room. It was calling her, enchanting her like a snake charmer, making her want to do its bidding. She closed her eyes, stretching her arms above her head, reaching up, her fingertips pressed hard against the window, supporting her. She arched her hips forward against the glass, pressing her sex to it, her dark hair highlighted against it. Her full breasts pressed hard against the window, squashed against it, sensitive, a smear of her juices gleaming already on the glass.

If anyone was out there and looked up now they would have a great view of her, wantonly displaying herself for the world. She pushed her full dark lips against the glass and drew back admiring the perfect red image that they had left. A kiss for the night, for the stranger, the man she imagined, who may be watching her from one of the windows, admiring her body, wanting her, needing her, running his hands over his own body as he drank her in.

She felt a finger run down her back making her flinch slightly and arch her back against the touch. Fingers tracing down her sides, nails tickling her flesh at the same time as they caressed, sending shivers down her spine. She revelled at the feel of lips kissing the tender spot on the back of her neck, that place that made her go weak at the knees. The soft touch of the lips against her skin as they kissed gently and persistently. The fingers slid round to cup her breasts, holding the weight of them, squeezing them as the lips moved on, working their way around the base of her neck, teasing her.

She leant back against him, feeling his hard body against her soft flesh. His head bent to kiss her neck harder, his lips and tongue insistent now, his teeth nipping at her body making her gasp. His arms encircled her, one cupping her breast, playing with the nipple, the other holding her waist. She could feel the outline of his hard cock against her naked ass, the warmth of his bare chest against her as she leant back against him.

She slipped a finger into her mouth and sucked hard on it, causing a ripple of sensation to run through her body and her own touch. She reached down and slipped it between her legs a jolt running through her as she touched her clit.

His hand came up and gently stroked her cheek as she began to rub herself, slow circles over her clit, flicking the ring in her clit hood, rubbing the cold metal against herself. He buried his face in her hair, pulling her head back against his cheek as he held her against him.

Her finger rubbed harder now. Harder, faster, working against her body, sending sensations flooding over her. She felt herself grow wetter and revelled in the feelings, inhaling deeply, catching the scent of sex, of herself, beginning to pervade the room, mingling with the vanilla. She opened her eyes and stared out of the window drinking in the scene of snow and moonlight before her. She was caught between the cold of the glass and the hard muscled warmth of his body, his lips on her neck, his cock pressing against her she worked her fingers harder against her clit. The music built to its climax, the violin speeding and rasping, matching her own movements, her own need. Overdosing on the sensations she threw back her head and screamed as her orgasm broke over her in hard waves of pleasure.

She collapsed to her knees in front of the window, spent. The quiet emptiness surrounded her as outside the snow began to fall again. Her fingers reached up and collapsed the necklace running over the intricate silver moon hanging on the chain between her breasts.

She remembered the note that had fallen out of the envelope with it.

"Of night and light and the half light," Yeats' words she knew.

"When you wear this and dream, if you want it enough you will feel me holding you in my arms," his words.

The Witching Hour. When desire casts its spell taking sex, moonlight, snow and dreams and blending them using a little magic, with need, lust and with love. Then, even the impossible can come true. Just for a moment...

Authors note – This is something a little different to my usual pieces. It was inspired by the view it describes and by intensifying echoes from the past.