City of Splendors

Isabel rolled her head back, rolled her eyes back, fluttered close, parted her lips, moaned. He was hitting just the right places in her, striking that sweet, sensitive spot at her core that sent a pulse of orgiastic pleasure shuddering white-hot through her nerves. She forced her hips down against his, pinning him to the bed, riding him hard.

She'd certainly had worse nights; Elas was having the luckiest of his life. She actually had listened to him play, and for a long time, in fact. Isabel was hardly so crude as to drag the boy into her bed without a word. Oh, she'd every intention, when she'd laid eyes on him after her third glass of wine. They didn't know each other, and she couldn't care less, because he had a fine face and elegant hands, and played the harp with care and respect, and because Isabel needed something tonight, something that wasn't planned, wasn't proper, something spontaneous and redolent with the experience of being alive. Sex was always a powerfully life-affirming act to her, a way to cut loose after days of hard training and devoted service to her Order.

It was total self-abandonment, an exquisite and much-needed release. So she'd listened to him play. His music was very fine. They talked, shared another glass of wine. He was a Calishite, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a lilting Alzhedo accent. He'd moved here seeking his fortune. Instead he found work in a tavern, and just enough time to practice his strings in the evenings, and found her. There was an unspoken acceptance in his eyes when she kissed her, tasting the wine on his lips, her tongue inviting his own to play along her pillowy lips, in the warmth of her mouth. She was beautiful then, rapturously. Then Isabel walked her fingers down along his collar, along the dark, smooth skin of his chest, and asked him if he'd like to play one last song for her.

That was an hour ago.

The headboard crashed and smacked against the inn walls, and Isabel didn't care who heard them. Her palms pressed against his chest, olive-dark and glistening with sweat, her hips lifted, pumping down in long, rolling arcs that buried every inch of the boy's thick cock to the hilt between the folds of her cunt, searing hot like molten silk around him, squeezing, fluttering. Elas propped himself up on his elbow, reclining back in bed with a certain natural majesty, his fingers brushing through her hair to settle behind her neck. He kissed the curve of her shoulder, feeling it move and flex under his mouth. He licked along her neck, her throat, tilting her head back, lips finding her chin. Isabel's hand snatched his hair, pulling him away, smiling wickedly down into his copper-dark eyes..

"Just, mmmh, just lie back," she moaned between her breaths. He did. His hands rested along her supple curves of her hips. She was impossibly tight around him. He groaned in pleasure when she squeezed around him, thighs spread around his waist, riding. Her pleasure mounted. Warm shudders coursed through her body. Her head tilted back, hair tumbling down her shoulders, her movements desperate, erratic, syncopated, hips rising, falling, writhing, falling again. Orgasm blossomed within her, spreading tendrils of pleasure through her limbs. The boy felt her tighten and flutter around him. He coiled his arm around the back of her neck and pulled her down, locking his lips with her own, beating out a few last measures with his hips. His cock flexed inside her, throbbing. She gave a little whining moan in his mouth when he pulled free. His breath came hard against her lips and her tongue, and his groan was tight and strained as he released, cum arcing, spraying in thick ropes that spattered across her flesh, pearlescent against her white skin.

She wasn't anywhere near done. She told him so. Good, he said. Isabel grinned. She lifted her hips up, shuddering, pleasurably sore, swung them around, straddling the boy's face. He obliged her. His arm hooked around the small of her back, pressed his tongue between her folds without a moment's hesitation, lapping, suckling. Isabel bit her lip. She wiggled her hips encouragingly against his face, while her own disappeared between his legs. What Elas lacked in experienced, he more than compensated with natural talent and youthful aplomb, a sheer exuberance and enthusiasm she rather liked in her partners, and was inclined to reward.

So she did, slowly, and with great care. Her pink lips closed around the base of his shaft, suckling, slurping the spot clean of his spilled cum. She dragged the flat of his tongue up along his formidable length. She'd been pleasantly surprised by his size, once the two of them had kicked off their clothing and tumbled into bed. It was hardly the first time she'd fellated him tonight, and if she had her way, it wouldn't be the last. Her tongue encircled his head, still sensitive with the tremors of orgasm. But she was careful, and silenced his moans with a well-placed thrust of her hips. Her eyes fluttered close when his tongue and lips found the pearl of her clit, lavishing it with his attention, and she worked his softening cock with her tongue and her lips, the head resting near her throat, withdrawing clean and gleaming with her saliva.

Isabel stayed with him as the hours sank away, vanishing into the night like ink in water, until there were no distinctions left, and she did not know how long the night was, or quite how long she'd been with him. It might have been moments ago they wandered in through that door. It might have been hours. She didn't care. By the coy smile on his lips and the expression of self-satisfaction in his eyes, neither did he. Isabel rather liked that. It was flattering, the way he looked at her, with an unmistakable gleam of pride, as if he'd accomplished something merely by the act of catching her eyes. He was right, of course.

They talked in the rest between their sex, basking in the heat of one another's afterglow. The conversation came easily to them, flowing felicitously like wine between old friends. Elas kept his word and never asked about her night, never asked her how her night had been, and Isabel was thankful for this, for she'd all but forgotten why she'd wandered into this tavern at all. Sex and wine, music and company; it was a heady cocktail, and the concoction had worked beautifully, instilling in Isabel a profound sense of repose. She'd remember this, in the coming days, when she returned to her life as a knight, donning her sacred armor and taking up once again her hallowed duty.

Duty. It was always there, waiting beyond the edges of night, as inevitable and inescapable as the dawn. She told him that.

"Stay then," he said.

"I've duties in the morning," she said.

"Surely," he said, searching her eyes, "you aren't thinking of leaving before morning."

"No," she said, with a smile, and turned to lie on her back, drawing him atop her. Her fingers traced his shoulder, squeezed his arm, pearl-white skin against copper-dark. "No, I'll be here in the morning."

Elas mirrored her smile. His hand found her thighs. She spread them beneath the sheets, abandoning herself to the pleasure. He settled into a rhythm. Her eyes fluttered. Nails dragged down his back. The headboard beat against the wall, keeping time with the moments as they vanished, one by one, each of them perfect, and impossible to preserve.