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This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and characters are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Home Early Copyright© 2006 Nix Winter Tales Of The Slave Girl Edition Cover art and design by Nix Winter All rights reserved. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation. Published by loveyoudivine 2006 Find us on the World Wide Web at www.loveyoudivine.com

Tales Of The Slave Girl

M

arna worked at St. Evan's Hospital. She'd been Charge Nurse for

six months. Today had been one of the days that made her consider an office job, some place quiet, in the back, with a water cooler to listen to other people's stories around. She leaned closer to the mirror in the master bedroom's bathroom, wondering if she'd grown older just today, if it showed. Brown hair, short, curly, shiny still, it wasn't storybook hair, but it was soft, as she ran her fingers through it, sorting it out, pulling it around her face. She didn't have any make up to wash off her face; there was never enough time to put it on before work. Her scrub top was colorful enough, she thought with a smirk as she pulled it over her head and dropped it to the floor, leaving the little pink sheep and blue kitties on the inside. Still watching herself in the mirror, looking for some sign of aging, of being worn down by her day, she drew her fingertips along the line of her bra. Just a basic white bra with good support, but when she closed her eyes, it was ivory white, with a lace of curving lilies laying over the swell of her soft breast. Her imagination skipped away from her day, as a rose, deepest red traced down over that lily shaped lace, the velvet soft of the petals against the ivory of her skin. Beyond the rose was the hand of her husband, a strong carpenter's hand, calloused, but graceful, perfectly at home in the black tuxedo that went up his arm, over strong, hardworking shoulders. He smiled at her in her daydream, stepped closer so that the rose caressed her cheek and whispered, "You are my angel, the most beautiful woman in the world." "Daydreaming?" Mark asked, his little finger trailing down her spine, right to the puckered edge of the pink scrub pants she wore. "About me?" Her eyes snapped open and blush shot up her cheeks. "And so? If I was? Are you going to spank me?" 3

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He leaned his chin on her shoulder as he slipped both arms around her. "You're cute when you get all pink like that," he smiled, just enough stubble on his cheek and chin to poke at her skin, to make her shiver as his fingers, walked up her belly to the front opening clasp of her bra. "So? Were you?" She blushed brighter as her bra popped open and his strong hands slide tenderly around her breasts, thumbs fanning back and forth over her nipples. "Maybe," she admitted. They'd been married just a little over a year. The first marriage for both of them. He'd asked her in high school, but she'd wanted to finish college first. It had worked well, because now he had a thriving construction company and she had her nursing. "Just maybe?" he asked, fingers trailing slowly up to her shoulders, then to slip her bra off her arms. Leaning very close to her ear, he whispered, voice low and rumbly, "Just maybe? Maybe it was a great sultan you were daydreaming about? With dark hair and those ebony eyes, like in that book you were reading." She wanted to tell him that it wasn't, just him in a tuxedo with a rose, but his voice seemed to caress her soul as his breath touched her ear, then her throat as he kissed down, biting gently, licking, blowing. He moved around her neck, licked the very back of her spine and up to her other ear as he dropped her bra onto her discarded shirt. "Maybe you were his newest slave girl, waiting in his royal bedroom for him to unwrap and unvirgin." "Maybe," she breathed, goose bumps tingling across her shoulders, down her belly. “Mark! I love when you kiss me there!" His voice dropped deeper and in an affected British accent, he growled as he turned her around, "I am not Mark! I am Sultan Vigoroso! And you are mine to do with as I please!" She whimpered into his kiss, his tongue taking over her mouth, her 4

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protests, even the soft moan of pleasure and she wrapped both arms around his neck, holding to him. He slipped strong fingers under the elastic of her scrubs and worked them down, leaving her white cotton panties on. He held her lip between his teeth for a moment, kissed it then pulled back just a little, so that he could look into her eyes. His eyes were an ordinary hazel, not the ebony of the sultan from her story, but his were softened with love. "I love you," he said softly, before the playfulness reasserted itself, "My little slave girl!" Easily, he hoisted her up and set her on the counter, just to the side of the sink and said, "Hold onto the towel bar, my pretty slave!" Breathing was hard, and she bit her own lip, holding it between her teeth and watching him, as he pulled her work shoes off and tossed them out into the hall, imitating the royal hauteur of Sultan Vigoroso! She reached behind her head and grabbed onto the towel bar. The heat of her blush was lower now, making it hard to sit still, soaking through the white cotton of her panties. "Oh no!" She called out, voice shrill and maybe a little Victorian damsel in distress. "I am a virgin! You mustn't touch me!" "You are my virgin now!" He replied, fingers hooking under the pink scrub pants and pulling them down, taking them all the way off her legs, so that she sat there in nothing but panties, blush, and welcoming honey. "All mine!" As if to prove his possession of her, he leaned forward and took one nipple into his mouth, suckling it until it was hard and hot in his mouth, the nipple just a tiny nub. He blew against her skin as he moved across her chest, till he reached the other nipple that was already tightening. She whimpered as he took that one between his teeth, looked up at her, his brown eyes playful, then sucked it deep into his mouth. Gritting her teeth, she gave mock struggle, her whimpers little more than pleasure against the inside of her lips. He pulled back to survey his handy work, both nipples pert and tight, puckered and just standing at attention for him. He held up one finger, licked it, swirled his tongue around it, then lightly drew it down her belly while his other hand pulled those white panties open and the slick finger disappeared south into the brown curls between her legs. "Spread your legs for your Master, my 5

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slave." "Oh," she moaned, not sure at all what to say, as his finger touched her clit, the pearl of her pleasure, then farther in to part the petals of her womanhood. Moisture, hot and slippery met his explorations. Instead of spreading her legs, she closed them around his hand, rocked her hips. She bit her lip, stifling a moan, as the smooth hardness of his finger left lines of tingling nerves across her labia and shooting up inside of her. "I am a lady!" "Not anymore," he growled, his finger thrusting upwards, into the furnace of his wife's heat. "Now you are my own kiln, my own forge to heat my sword in!" Still holding the towel bar, she arched back, rocking forward on his finger. "Your sword is too small to be fearful!" He growled, added another finger and pressed himself to her, work jeans against bare thighs, blue work shirt against her bare breasts. His kiss took her mouth, melted them with a heat that would forge his sword, harden and lengthen it. Quickly, he took her mouth, possessing the warmth within, small sweet tongue, lips, even teeth, knowing her, longing for her. When their kiss broke, her lips were wet still, parted, panting. The flush on his face made him look younger, boyish, rakish, made her heart feel like it could wrap them both in more happily ever after than any story book could hold. "Your forge is not hot enough for a real sword," he said. His tongue traced slowly over his upper lip, hinting at what he wanted to do. "Be still my beautiful slave, while I heat your fires!" It was cliché, but uttering it felt good, made her clit tighten, ripple pleasure up her belly. "What are you going to do to me? Please!" Hands gently but firmly on her thighs, he parted her knees. Kneeling, he bit the inside of her knee, kissed the bite mark, then licked all the way up the inside of her thigh to blow soft brown muff away from the living pearl below. With his fingers, he guided the hair back, cleared the forest of soft brown and blew against the hardened and swelling bit of flesh that was her clit. He looked up at her, smiling, flicking his tongue teasing. And she responded with a whimper. Head already light, she leaned back, 6

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resting the back of her head against the towel bar. She closed her eyes when he started. Tongue, warm, moist, almost painfully slow, he made the short length of her clit seem like a light year. Her breath came out ragged, broken with sound. "More! Mark! Don't tease me!" He blew back the hair, then blew directly on her clit. "You are mine, I'll tease you if I want. Tell me, my pet, tell me what you want." "Make me cum! Mark!" Her belly clenched and she rocked her hips up, but he held her, strong hands on her hips, even as his fingers traveled towards the soft petals that covered her entrance. "Oh lick me! Suck me, Mark!" "Master," he commanded. His tongue poised at the very tip of her clit, one finger, circling slowly over the entrance to her heat, teasing, waiting for her to obey. "Master! My Master," she cried out, loud enough for him to be glad they had a house not an apartment. "Please!" Now he set about in earnest, licking, stroking, knowing well the path to her pleasure, fingers deep into her. The towel bar creaked as she turned it, her legs coming around his shoulders, clinging to him. Passion pulled her taut; a bow pulled tight, just waiting for the moment for the arrow to fly! "Master!" Then her honey flooded his face and heat exploded up through her. She cried out, not even knowing it, holding the peak of her orgasm as tightly as she could, floating somewhere between the bathroom counter and infinity. He blew over her sensitive flesh, helping her hold the height, and she buried her fingers in his hair, feeling the sawdust and silky shortness of his hair. "Master! I love you!" Shaking fingers released the towel bar as he lifted her in strong arms. All the way to their bedroom, his kisses danced over her throat, across her breasts, and back up again. One arm around the back of his shoulders, she trailed fingers over the back of his neck, as her other hand worked to open the buttons of his shirt. As he laid her down on their bed, he whispered, "I love you, too, my beautiful wife." 7

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Scooting to the middle of the bed, she watched him undress. Strong fingers moving from one button to the next, then the shirt falling to the floor, to be followed by tee shirt, before he moved on to his pants. His body was hard, lean, shoulders rounded, the lines crossing his belly deepening as he shoved his jeans down. He could have been on a deck of America's most wanted men, hottest, criminally hot men, she thought. She lifted up on her elbows as he bent to unlace his work boots. The curve of his ass was sweet, tight, and she let herself imagine the little dimples that would be there, on the sides, as he thrust hard and deep into her. "I want you," she said, voice thick and sultry. "Master." He hurried, toeing off his boots, stepping out of his jeans, forgetting about the worn white socks. One knee on the bed, he paused to flex his muscles for her, to show off a bit, perhaps some primitive ritual, something deeply rooted in human instinct. His flexing pecs, sculpted abs, even fine stubble on the line of his jaw set off instincts in her and she rolled back towards him, caught his hard arrow. He groaned as her fingers wrapped around him, soft skin gliding over his sensitive hard manhood. Growling, a deep rumble at the back of his throat, he kissed her again. With more tenderness than the kiss in the bathroom, now dancing with her tongue, sharing himself with her, as he guided her back over onto the bed. One hand on the bed, by her shoulder, wrist touching her ear, his other slide between her legs, spreading those soft petals with is fingers, as his manhood brushed against her inner thighs. She hooked a leg around his bent leg, inching it up the back of his thigh, pulling him forward. "Oh heaven," he groaned as the head of his manhood slide in her juices, hit the hollow above her entry and slipped into her, head filling, separating her. He thrust home, deep into her, sealing her sensitive clit between them for a moment. She cried out, trembling in his arms. So tenderly, as if she were the most valuable, most delicate butterfly, he slipped an arm under her shoulders and held her as he with drew, thrust deeper into her. Her breath fluttered against his ear, her trembling fingers held his back, pulled him closer to her. "Oh yes!" 8

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"Yes!" He agreed, loving her with all his being, moving within her, as he trusted her to hold him while passion controlled him, powered his thrusts, the deep, and the so slow withdraws that stoked the volcano in her. "Cum again! Come on, honey, cum with me!" Her cry had no words, but his command drove her over the top as he thrust one final time, holding her tight, his rough cheek to hers. Muscles clenched around him, squeezing him as she came as well, blending their passion as their hearts held to each other. Sleep filtered into the haze of happiness surrounding them. He held her, head on his chest, strong hand rubbing her back. The stress of their morning was as far away as the rest of the world.

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