Beauty and the Beast

Moving deliberately, back slightly arched, lips pulled back over teeth in a canine snarl, he growled low and deep, a vibration she felt through him more than heard. She groped through his hair, his hands ran down her side, beneath her, pulling her towards him.

Lost now, he straightened up and pushed angrily at her, the tip of his cock striking deep inside, pounding away, each one creating reverberations, a Chinese gong which with repeated strikes will increasingly vibrate, and only when the final hammer blow is struck will the gong release its sound, its vibrations cascading out, the tension lifts, waves rolling from the epicentre.

As he came, he dug his fingers into the flesh of her behind, pulling her apart. The movement of his twitching cock deep inside her moved her to orgasm, squeezing him out, where he rolled beside her, and lay still, breathing heavily, deeply.

The sounds in the cabin returned to the hushed wind without, the rain beating against the windows, steady breathing.

In the morning, the sun streams in through the thin curtains, dust floats like plankton in the thick morning air, caught in the rays of the sun. There was nobody beside her, and though she was stiff through yesterday's hike, she felt refreshed.

There was nobody downstairs either, human or otherwise. She changed back into her dry white linen dress and shoes, which had been placed at the foot of the bed. Her stockings were too torn to wear again, so went without. There was no sign of her host at breakfast, she ate alone, scones and hot coffee which had been laid out on the table.

While she ate, and drank, she traced her fingers across the marks on the table. Some deep scored marks, many lighter scratches. One looked fresh, and, tracing her finger along the cleft, a splinter dug into her finger. She yelped in surprise, and tried to suck away the pain. She could feel the splinter with her tongue, sticking out hard from her skin. Gripping the exposed end between her teeth, she tugged at it until it withdrew, bringing blood with it. She spat out the splinter and looked at her finger, squeezed it, watching the blood bead, inflating, until the surface tension succumbed to gravity, and a large drop fell onto her lap, a vivid red spot on her white linen. A second fell, followed by a third, as she pressed her thumb to her fingertip, squeezing out blood, watching drop after drop fall, spoiling the clean linen. After her trial through the forest, her dress looked good as new, to be spoiled by this simple act.

Eaten her fill, rinsing her dishes and placing them to dry, she made her way to the door, and walked out into the warm embrace of mid-morning sun, storm passed. Birds sang in the trees, and a path continued clearly past the cabin, downhill.

At the foot of the steps to the cabin, she turned, walked lightly downhill, and did not look back. Before long she could hear the sounds of a busy village: children laughing and playing, the rasp of sawing wood, the barking of a hound. How close she had been to civilisation, so that she might never need stay in the cabin at all, except that, in the dark and wind and rain, the cabin was the only sanctuary she had wanted.