Polarisian Multiverse Bk. 02 Ch. 04 - Moonlit Silver

The hardness that goes with silver statues

Two days to go - slightly less, only until sundown of the second day. But too long. You knew she was here. You knew she was safe now. But you wanted her - fully aware and responding to you. To feel her heat, arousing or soothing, to hold her close and safe.             

Routine and drill saved you through the heat of the day. Guard point checks, weapons practice, physical training. Pushing yourself harder than the men, giving them the goal to work for. Pushing because whenever you stopped there was a glimmer of golden skin behind your eyelids, a feeling of heat in your gut.

Working at your desk, with lanterns lit, you didn't see the change from light to dusk. But you felt it like a tingle across your skin. Glancing at the shadows beyond the window screen, you started to rise, only to shake your head and seat yourself again with the reports you were studying. But no use. You couldn't concentrate. She was out there, somewhere, you didn't know where, but somewhere in the halls or gardens, she would be out - in silver.

You glided like a shadow down the halls, a whisper in your soft boots. You knew the slave population was numerous but had not thought before now how much so. Now, seeing silver statues and figures scattered in erotic decoration and liberal profusion throughout the palace, you remembered that this should only be a third or so of the total. And none of the figures was hers.

You fled to the gardens when the endless corridors started to make you feel like a rat in a maze. Harder to find statues out here, with shadows shifting and fountained water rippling silver in the moonlight. You saw one silver equestrienne perched on a stone stallion, thighs high on his shoulders and arms clinging around the neck. Another was a glittering fairy in a bed of flowers, leaning over the rail of a fence holding a daisy bloom she had just picked. The argent cheeks of her ass rose sweetly above her taut legs. The petaled edges of her pussy could be seen, and you saw a dew on them that wasn't from the night. Even statues could be used if shaped correctly.             

Around another curve, a small lake fed by a waterfall. The face of the hill was in shadow, the waterfall sensed more by the tinkle and rush that vision. Light on it was reflected from the moonlight on the pool. And it was reflecting on something lighter than the rocky face.

Dulled to pewter by the shadows, a nymph stretched back against the cliff face as though using the fall of water to bathe. It flowed over her hair and shoulders, traced streams across her chest, parted by breasts only to reconverge and melt into the vee of her legs. Her right hand reached behind her neck, and her head was turned up to the crook of her arm, eyes closed, lips slightly parted. Her left arm brushed her ribs just below her breast, as if caught in the act of dropping her guard. Her left knee was bent a little. She was frozen in the act of sensuous turning under the fall, moonlight reflecting like frost in the spray.

You had seen her like that before, on the black sheets of your bed in Cynosure, stark contrast to her naked skin. She had turned beneath your hands and mouth, unable to hold still as you made her wet and set her on fire. You had taken her breast in your lips as soon as her fingers finished teasing the nipple tight and bringing her sweet milk to the surface. She had arched off the bed as you sucked hard and felt the spurt in your mouth.

You rounded the lake, passing the bridge that spanned it, coming to the ledge you remembered that skirted the stone face of the wall. Treading carefully on spray-stick stones, you circled the rim of the pool to where she stood. An ice princess, but as you raise your hand to her, you can feel her heat. You pause, feeling strange at taking her this way, but then move on, running a finger across the top of a breast, down into the curve between them where the rivulet of water runs across her silver breastbone.

No movement, no reaction. but you can feel the beat of a heart through the bone.

You cover both breasts with your palms, using your thumbs to flick at the pebbled nipples, and lean over her, seeking the pale lips, tasting the cherry heat within. As you nibble her lower lip, you find yourself rubbing your cock against her hips. You are hard and tight, as rocklike as the stone she seems to be made of. Tight with frustration, you bow your forehead to her shoulder, tense with unslaked and unshared desire. You remember how her body moved and burned under your hands, how she moved like a live wire under stage lights, incandescent with subtle sexuality. You want that, want her to be the woman you picked up in a dark alley, the one who you let into your bed and your life.

No release here. You will not let yourself use her publicly again. You could not use her now even if you wanted, positioned as she is. And you decline to provide yourself with the release you crave. And so, you stand near her, feeling her warmth, and slowly relax. Remembering instead the dark nights where you had felt her warm body next to you in the bed, where the light touch of a hand or foot was enough to reassure and bring sleep.

Your grasp relaxes to a caressing touch, appreciation of beauty without the urgency of desire. You stroke her face, trace her lips with your fingertips, brush her closed eyelids. Eventually you pull back, separating your body from hers, almost as hard for you to bring yourself to do as leaving her body after making love.

One final kiss, lingering in the sweetness, then you return around the lake, into the darkness of the gardens. The moon sets while you stand on the arch of the bridge, watching as its light moves over the lake, up the rock face, across her body, and disappears.