The Sway of Ravens Ch. 01

Time was measured now for Ciara by the swollen and surging presence in her small and delicate mouth; minute after minute rolled by as her hands tried to find purchase to brace herself against the slick ram that was battering through her open jaw and intruding deep into her quivering throat. A fugue of contracting muscles and gripping hands held Ciara Grayling transfixed, and it was all she could do to hold on to consciousness as she fought for breath amid the relentless pounding.

Again and again, Darin pushed against the young Ciara Grayling, sinking to his depth inside her tight mouth. An almost rabid thrill came over him, and he pushed ever faster against his squirming quarry. The sounds of her lips and cheeks receiving his piston strokes filled the hall with a wet, squicking cadence, though her soft whimpering was muted by Darin's bulk as she languished under his forceful assault. Faster and faster came his hips, and with both hands he pressed her mouth hard against the base of his fat, twitching cock as he contracted in spasms.

Darin pressed one hand against the display case as he palmed the back of Ciara's head with the other, pumping the hot wash of his semen into her mouth as her glistering cheeks blew out with the bulk of the load. For a long moment he stood over her as he drained himself gout by jerk into her pursed lips; and after a series of breathy grunts slid his wet dick out of her and looked down in admiration at her mouth, gently agape and ravished, and the milky white fluid that escaped it and ran down her porcelain chin as she panted.

Darin remained over her for a moment, dick out and twitching, until he had seen his fill of her in her glazed breathlessness. Ciara demurely swallowed the warm milk that filled her mouth, two of her small fingers pressed against her lips for effect, and then swallowed again before licking the tip of his rapidly drooping penis with her little pink tongue. With renewed boldness, he quickly fastened his trousers and turned distractedly to leave.

"The lads will never believe this," he said cockily, walking along the carpeted floor back to his guard station and out of sight. Still sprawled against the display case, Ciara drew a white tissue from her nearby coat and wiped her wet mouth with a pouting and still somewhat dismayed look on her flushed face. Rising from the tousled carpet, she beheld instantly that the reckless guard had neglected to close the display that held her precious scroll case; and in an instant she had the treasure in her handbag, admiring as she stashed it the cunningness of its devices.

It might have caused a stir to find the thing missing, but Ciara had not come unprepared from her adoptive father's machine shops; and out came her clever counterfeit, modeled after photographs back in America and carried across the sea upon her cryptic mission. With a fond glance at her handiwork, she slipped the elaborate fake in its place and gently closed the glass lid with only the hint of a rattle.

Ciara contemplated briefly her exfiltration strategy as she gathered herself in the unsteady light, filled with certainty that the corruptible guard would not suffer her departure without some sort of vulgar gambit. With the sudden rattling sound of a latch at the front door, she realized her luck and quickly threw on her coat and collected her bag.

As she emerged from the depths of the museum, the disheveled girl saw Darin apologizing to a newly arrived village dame for the locked door, assuring her that the latch was prone to slip and was certainly next on the list of repairs to the aging edifice. With a polite curtsy, Ciara pushed past the incredulous stranger and spoke not a word to the man who had been waiting to intercept her and extract from her assurances that she would return for another session beneath him. Thwarted, he said nothing as she departed for the street, though his every thought was bent toward finding her at unawares and despoiling her utterly of her maidenhood.

Ciara cautiously made her way back past the pretty houses and bright but dying October gardens of the village, fur hood fully drawn despite the relative warmth of the day, until she came back at last to her familiar hotel room and threw her heavy clothing and bag upon the antique four-poster bed. The maids giggled giddily and whispered to one another as she passed, knowing full well how perfectly arranged her hair and lipstick had been before her late morning departure; but they asked nothing of her but her preference of tea, and the young adventuress spent the rest of the evening soothing her sore neck and jaw in a heated tub.

Reaching a dripping arm out of the tub, Ciara took the scroll case from her nearby purse and held it appreciatively before her in both hands. She was not surprised to find that it was heavy in her grasp, though despite a close look she could not discover its method of opening. Unperturbed though tired, she dropped the metal tube back inside the folds of her purse and resolved to have at it after some rest. Satisfied, she kicked her legs playfully in the water and settled back for the better part of an hour beneath the scented foams and washes.

The late afternoon had settled upon Ravenscar by the sea, though Ciara had long since fogged the windows of her small bath chamber and could not see the clouds nor sky. Soon she remembered her papers and neglected research; and with a fair amount of reluctance, she rose from amid her warm, peach-scented bubbles and stepped out upon the fluffy yellow bath carpet. After a moment's admiration of her misty form in the humid mirror, she dried herself off and threw on a fluffy, over-sized pink bathrobe and wrapped a maroon towel around her head.

For the rest of that evening, she watched her little television with her slippered feet on the ottoman and a stack of papers beside her; but after no more than two hours of reading and turning her locked scroll case over in her hands, she found her eyes crossing and her lids heavy. She had sacrificed sleep at every turn for weeks, and even the fire of youth could not push back the sandman forever.

Rising with a yawn before the capering form of Edmund Blackadder on the flickering tube and tossing her handbag on an end-table, she tucked away the scroll case and smiled contentedly before pulling closed the bag's wide zipper and stashing it under the bed. As the hour passed nine o'clock, she retired at last, closing and clasping the thick journal that had received her pen that very evening with the enthusiastically written words, "Got it!"