The characters in this tale are the property of MCA/Universal, I have borrowed them without intent of profit, et cetera, et cetera... This piece is set around Gabrielle's misguided marriage. Comments welcome at firstname.lastname@example.org.
By: Sonia C. Barrera
He looked at her through soft brown eyes, adoring eyes. He caressed her with those eyes as he'd done countless times before, but this time she was real, this time he reached out one strong hand and touched her, drawing his thick fingers down the edge of her nightdress, her wedding nightdress, down the white lace, down the pale inside of her shoulder. She smiled down at him, kneeling delicately on the bed beside him with a steady radiance and a timid curiosity, with a gleam in her hazel green eyes stronger than when they had been just kids. Now everything was different.
Now she was a woman. Now she was real.
She held her chest high and he watched it rise and fall with her breathing, her full breasts hidden behind the nightdress, waiting for his hands, for his mouth to suckle them. Hunger awoke in his eyes and he felt the first stirrings between his legs. The coarse fabric of his own nightshirt gave way to his hardening need with a pleasantly light pressure. He took slow, deep breaths, running his tongue across his reddening lips to moisten them, and the slight movements of his body gave him incremental pleasure. His eyes were tracking the descent of his fingers to her chest, pulling down lightly on the neck of the dress, the cord that bound it closed giving way infinitesimally.
He looked up and she was looking down at his fingers, too, watching them work. And he saw her look further and see the movement under his nightshirt, the quiver of him waiting, and she fluttered her eyes against the warm tremor that ran through her, her small exhalation blanketing him in her breath, sweet as a milk-fed baby's. He looked at her, his eyes darkened with arousal, and she looked back with equally clouded eyes. Her small hand encircled his, pushing it against one breast, and then kneading it, her pale fingers interlocked with his own brown ones, and through the thin nightshirt, he felt her breast grow firm, its nipple becoming erect between the pressure of his fingers. She moaned softly, and the need to be inside of her swelled within him and he moaned low in response, pulling at the nightdress, the cord hissing through eyelets and the dress parting, revealing more of her soft flesh.
He buried his head there, in her bosom, breathing her skin in deep, lapping at the soapy honey of her skin like an animal. She buried those delicate fingers in the lazy curls of his hair and pressed him there till he couldn't breathe, but he persisted, flicking his tongue in tight circles around each hardened nipple, grown hard as his own cock. He lifted her, a muscled arm around her narrow waist, and set her atop him, his face still buried in her chest, his teeth nipping at her breasts in tenuous restraint that left red, red marks on her creamy flesh and made her yelp and clutch at him tightly.
She leaned into him, and he was trapped, teasingly, by their night clothes drawn in tight underneath her. He snatched at his nightshirt violently, pulling it up around his waist. He did the same to hers, grabbing at the delicate white cloth greedily from where it pooled at her ankles. He nearly erupted, as the sight of her creamy, firm thighs gave way to the shock of tight, red curls, and the light musk of her drifted to him as she moved to allow the dress to slide out from under her. The smooth thickness of her buttocks fit in his large hands, and he kneaded them as he gasped at the proximity of the moment. He slid his hands up to her waist and lifted her, centering her over himself. She moaned as the engorged staff of his flesh pierced her, burrowed inside her. The primal warmth of her engulfed him, and he was home. He strained against her until he could go no further, thrusting gracelessly, his hands tight around her waist, pulling her down, and then he was erupting, pouring himself into her, heaving underneath her, his spastic bucking ebbing until he lay spent beneath her, brown eyes closed...
...the warrior awoke with a start at the sound of her own low moans, her bronzed skin slick with a fine layer of sweat. She pulled her hand from between her damp thighs and struggled to calm her breathing and her racing heart pounding in her ears. After a long moment of waiting in the dark of the cool cave, sleep overcame her once more.
He looked at her through soft, brown, adoring eyes. He caressed her with his eyes as countless times before, but this time he reached out one strong hand and touched her, drawing his thick fingers down the white lace, down the pale inside of her shoulder. She was radiant, kneeling delicately on the bed beside him.
He watched her obscured breasts rising and falling, waiting for his mouth to suckle them. Hunger awoke in his eyes and he felt the first stirrings between his legs, the coarse fabric of his own nightshirt giving way to his hardening need. He ran his tongue across blushing lips, his eyes tracking the descent of his fingers to her chest. He saw her look to the quiver of him waiting, and her small exhalation blanketed him in her breath, sweet as a milk-fed baby's.
It was too much. He wrapped a muscled arm around her narrow waist and pulled her firm body beneath his, the delicate white fabric of her nightdress tangling underneath her. He pulled at it savagely, leaning in and kissing her with equal ferocity, bruising her tender lips. But they parted for him, and he probed her mouth with thick tongue, delving deep. She moaned and he withdrew, looking down at her with ravenous, darkened eyes. He flipped her, a doll, onto her taut stomach, drawing the dress up over her back to her neck and biting down into one firm buttock like an animal at its kill, nipping and sucking at one, then the other, kneading the thick muscle with callused hands.
He pulled his own shirt over his head, holding the writhing girl down firmly, and taking hold of his engorged cock, he stroked it twice, securing its hardness, and guided it to her, entering slowly, painfully, deliciously, slowly. Then he was overcome. He was thrusting, his taut abdomen straining against her buttocks, spreading them, feeling the warmth of her surround him, burrowing, her juices making his way slick, her groans and musk crazing him, making him thrust harder and faster until he was coming like a fountain inside her, pouring himself out, filling her completely, claiming her, and he was collapsing on top of her virgin back, slick with sweat, his spent member still embedded within her...
...the warrior woke again, this time, her long body riddled with electric tremors and bathed in sweat, her heart beating furiously against her chest, her lungs heaving. She lay in the warm, deafening glow of her climax for long moments before wiping the remnants of her dream from between her legs and thinking of bathing.
She was riding hard, sweat from the straining horse streaking across its neck and her own thighs, flying in her eyes, her body bent low. The figures ahead of her grew in her sight as she approached. And then she was leaping from her saddle and drawing her sword and engaging the smiling bitch Callisto, ever enjoying the game. She was parrying and spinning, her sword vibrating sickeningly under each blow, each clash reverberating in her ears. She was leaping over Callisto, her nemesis watching her, smiling. And it was Perdicus in front of her now, staring up at her with those milky brown eyes and claiming he was weaponless, defenseless, his palms out to her, pleading. And she was thrusting, staring deep into those cowardly eyes, and she could feel his thick flesh resist and then give way to the point of her weapon as she pushed, gliding through his organs on its exit through his back. Gabrielle's screams mingled with Callisto's cackling as Perdicus fell to his knees, looking down at the sword embedded in his stomach then up at her with pathetic disbelief...
...Callisto's words rang through her head even as she sat bolt upright searching the darkness around her desperately: "That'll do." The warrior's chest heaved, her blue eyes blind in the cave's darkness but searching, her nostrils flaring, straining to catch the familiar scent. She waited for the bard to come to her with gentle hands and tender words, to wipe the frantic sweat from her brow, to push back her hair, to cradle her head, to whisper to her until she was calm. And this time she would let her. This time, she wouldn't push those warm hands away. This time, she would let herself fall asleep in the comfort of those arms. But this time, there was no bard, only the cold of the cave surrounding her and the chill knowledge that she was very far from home. It set in like nausea, but it was tears that welled up, bitter tears that wracked her body while echoes of the bard's voice flew at her from memory's deep, deep well.
She was riding hard, bent low over the golden horse, sweat from the straining animal making dark streaks across its neck and her own dust-covered thighs. The figures ahead of her grew in her sight. Then she was leaping from her saddle and engaging the smiling Callisto. She was spinning, her sword vibrating sickeningly under each blow. Callisto was watching her, smiling. And it was Gabrielle in front of her now, staring up at her with those spring-green eyes and reaching up to touch her face, the tenderest of touches. And she was staring deep into those eyes, feeling her homecoming. She was leaning in, her smile splitting her face, her breath taken from her. She was diving into those eyes and spiraling toward those ruby lips, blood singing within her as she pressed her own to them, and time stopped...
...behind her, the blond warrior is thrusting, smiling maniacally, the thick leathers resisting, then giving way to the sword's gleaming tip, gliding through the knotted muscles of the back before emerging, crimson, from below the regal warrior's sternum and piercing her lover, coming to rest in the bard's beating center. The warrior swallows the bard's final breath, their lips never parting, locked tight, the trickle of blood barely escaping their seal. The blunted searing of the sword and the warrior at her back are very far away.
The grin drops from Callisto's face, one hand at the buried hilt, the other arm around the warrior, braced against her buckling weight, lowering the lovers slowly, screaming the warrior's name, screaming the warrior's name, screaming at her to stay. But the warrior does not hear. She is smiling, looking down into the bard's cooling eyes, the fading green of fall, and murmuring "I love you I love you I love you" into their kiss.
The two women's arms release their hold, but they remain joined by the sword, their blood
mingling, and collapsed against the nymph-warrior on her knees in the dust. She cradles them both in her arms, weeping, then beating at their bodies savagely, trying to rouse them from their sleep.
The sun begins to sink below the lip of the horizon, bathing the three figures in a spray of deep colors. Callisto kneels there, keeping the birds of prey at bay, until she undoes the dark warrior's chakram from her side, and draws the razor's edge across her own delicate throat, letting her blood spill over the still lovers. In moments, her own body is slumped across theirs, her soul following them into the night.
And the birds move in.
Sonia C. Barrera © 1995
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