Birth E-Book

Donna Russo Morin

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Count Witon has grown weary of the constant war between the races. Together with his wife Belamay, and Persky - first of a rare Human / Elf breed - Witon plans to create a new society: an utopia for anyone who longs for peace.

They recruit pilgrims from every city and species, and set off to a promising island found by chance in the middle of the churning ocean. The journey there is fraught with challenges, and none of them is as dire as the one they face at their destination.

Will they have the strength and determination to give birth to a new time?

This book contains graphic sex and is not suitable for readers under the age of 18.

Leseprobe

Birth

Once, Upon A New Time Book One

Donna Russo Morin

Copyright (C) 2019 Donna Russo Morin

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

To all who see magic…and believe it.

Chapter I: DRIVEN

The curved, sharp tip of the falchion blade sliced him from elbow to shoulder; in the strange, slowness of time on a battlefield, he watched blood pump from his limb with every beat of his heart.

He knew pain, the yell of it stung the back of his throat; he ignored both. He stumbled, tripped over bodies and parts, hearts no longer pumping. His broadsword sliced through any Elf daring to stand before him, dying a little each time his blade… his hand… cut off their life.

He could no longer guard himself; his shield plummeted from the damaged arm, rendered nearly useless by the blade's hard slice. His anger rose up, equally as hard, equally as impenetrable. His swung his blade before him, all the defense he had, a harsh swish that cut the air and all else that stood in his path.

The cry beckoned him ever onward. His own moaning filled his ears, like those of so many others on the field. Sword clanged against sword, or ax, or shield. The dying screamed for their mothers or the mercy of their gods. Yet the plea found him again and again. High-pitched, somehow subdued; in the lament, he heard pain unbearable, courage unshakeable. He would find that voice. Count Witon é Lahkrok would find who made such a sound… and save them.

His long legs made short shrift of the blood-soaked ground as he stepped around opponents locked in near mindless battle, moving ever closer to the front lines. The cataclysm thickened; he banged and ricocheted against bodies—a horde packed and locked in combat—his footsteps squelching in bloodied mud.

Witon lost his way, a red veil of blood muddling in silver-grey eyes. Confused by the mass of bodies—Human and Elf—fighting in pairs and bunches unrecognizable from one to the other. The beauty of his land lay in desolation, camouflaged by the conflagration of bodies. Pain burst in his gullet, a sledgehammer blow from within. How hard he had tried to stop this war; how miserably he had failed… a failure reeking of excrement and withering life.

“Would someone help me… please?”

It came again. That voice, a man's, but not quite. A boy?

“Please?”

Witon's head spun; droplets of blood and sweat sputtered out from his skin, from tangled strands of long hair.

A hand taller than most men, at least two above most Elves, his view of the vista lay unobstructed. His gaze searched as the pleading reverberated. So close now; he knew it, felt it.

“Where are ye?” Witon called out, a boom above the din. “I will help, I swear it.”

Truth rang clear in his words, the longing for the killing to stop.

“H… here.”

It came as little more than a squeak now, yet the desperation in it grew ever louder.

It was enough.

Witon whirled to his left, sidling now as his head volleyed left and right, avoiding a swinging sword, an avalanching ax. His foot struck and held; upon stone or body, it made no difference. He faltered, bending at the waist to balance, arms pinwheeling.

He saw him then.

In a pool of blood-like fluid, greenish and thick, with flecks of red, the creature lay. One inert arm lolled on the ground, nearly cut clean off… bone hacked in two, muscle ends withering. Just a thin layer of flesh joined limb to body; a thin layer of light green flesh.

Witon, struggling for breath after the difficulties of the search, stared down, unable to move, for he knew not what manner of being he had found.

Pale green eyes, swollen with tears and red-rimmed, beseeched him, pain writ harshly upon the strange face. Roused by the imploring gaze, Witon stirred; it mattered not at all what it was, only that it needed his help. It was the way of him, the way he had pledged to live.

“I am here.” Witon squatted, leather creaking, armor rattling. Throwing his sword from his hand, he scooped his long, thick arm beneath the injured being and lifted him up as he would thin twigs of kindling, throwing the creature over his uninjured shoulder. “I will get you help.”

Rising up, hitching the injured body higher up, secured by its own weight, Witon turned from the front lines of the battle.

In the world of Minra Erna, the air forever crackled with all forms of magic; but few had ever seen the sort Witon wrought in that moment.

He walked.

He walked with grey eyes narrowed, glowing silver. He walked with thick lips clenched in a thin, bloodless line, jaw muscles jumping. He walked with huge, long strides that proclaimed he would permit no obstruction. No one dared try.

They parted for him. Elves and Humans alike lowered their weapons, mouths dropping to gaping dark maws against pale faces blotched with blood and dirt, astonishment blighting the antagonism they shared.

“Belamay!” Witon cried the name, trudging through the forest of decimation. “Belamay! I need you, Belamay!”

Silence answered; the battlefield hushed, became a place of worship. In the wake of screams and clangs, Witon's voice rang out.

“Belamay, please!”

“Here! I am here, Witon!”

From the back of the field, the fully armored warrior stepped out of the crowd, near the edge of the meadow where once green grass—now torn earth, black with green and red blood—met thick and lush forest. Dark eyes peered out the visor slit; a long shaft of midnight black hair fell out the back, hanging to the soldier's knees.

“What in the name of the Great Stars…?”

“Do not ask.” Witon stepped towards Belamay, nothing but the small, battered body between them. “He… she… it…”

Witon shook his head; a grind of his teeth, a clench of his bruised eyelids.

He opened them; with naught but clear sight, he stabbed Belamay with his piercing gaze.

“We need you.”

The soldier's dark eyes flicked between Witon and the creature in his arms, but only for a moment.

“This way.”

Witon followed, breath hitching with relief.

“Fosrin!” Witon shrieked the name of his sergeant, head once more whirling this way, that way.

Within seconds, the brawny young man stood stiffly by Witon's side.

“Sir.” A bark of obedience, a bow of his helmeted head.

Witon leaned close, voice low. “Get our men out of… this. I see no good end for us, for either side. But do it gradually, a few at a time, no more.”

The sergeant raised his head and lifted his visor. He need not remove his helmet for Witon to see the dissatisfaction written on his ruddy face. It glinted there in the narrowed, darkening gaze, all too transparent.

“Just do it,” Witon hissed, turning without another word, following Belamay once more.

Into the trees they ran, dread travelling beside them. Would the creature die before they could give help? Would either Human soldiers or Elven—or worse, both—follow and attempt to stop them? He feared both.

Belamay led them along a thin, rutted pathway. Sunshine dappled the light brown dirt beneath their feet with specks of incongruent brilliance. Then off the path, into a clearing, but not an empty one.

Within the copse, horses grazed, reins loosely tied to surrounding trees.

“Give h… let me take the burden while ye mount.” Belamay held out hands covered to the elbow with thick brown leather gauntlets, blood-stained and cracking.

As if handling a child, Witon conveyed the creature into Belamay's hands. “Which horse?”

Belamay shrugged. “What does it matter? None of them are mine.”

“Hah!” Witon barked a laugh, a blessed moment of humor in a world devoid of it.

He reached for the saddle horn on the largest black destrier, knowing it must bear the weight of two, and hefted himself up with one graceful motion.

“To me,” he said, settled in the seat, leaning down with arms held out in a cradle.

Belamay delivered the creature back to his savior, untied the reins of their horse, and handed those up as well.

“With me!” Twirling onto a bay shire, snapping the leather tongs, Belamay led them away in a flurry.

Witon blinked, a slowly closing of lids in relief, words of gratitude to the Great Stars spoken in his mind. But their exit did not come soon enough.

As if it gave chase, the sounds of the battle—the resumption he feared most—rose up behind them and his heart suffered yet another wound. With a slap of the reins, he rushed from it.

Chapter II: URGENCY

The small manor house nestled within a grove of pine, their prickly needles just beginning the slow turn to autumn auburn glory.

“Talia?” Belamay bellowed, the call rising above the thunder of the horses charging forward through the small dirt courtyard. The soldier pulled hard on the reins at the front arched door, jumping from the bay even before it had come to a stop.

Grunting, throwing off the heavy, encompassing helmet, flushed pale skin revealed, Belamay yelled once more, impatience mingling with insistence. “Talia!”

The door burst open and the young, aproned maid stood in its threshold. Blue eyes round, bulging, held reflections of her mistress covered in blood, of Witon with a bloodier creature flopping in his lap.

Belamay could see the shock writ so plainly on the young girl. For nearly two years, Talia had served in Belamay's home, never knowing Belamay as the secret soldier she was, the only daughter of a deceased, distinguished warrior, a nobleman and his wife, both lost in a fire years ago. Reaching out, Belamay took Talia's hand gently, giving it a shake.

“Look at me, Talia.” She took the girl's other hand, giving both a shake as the maid's loose arms quivered. Dropping her voice, imitating her father with a concoction of command and care, Belamay spoke the girl's name once more: “Talia.” It was all she needed.

The pale, bulging eyes turned to her; in them, Belamay gratefully found recognition, cognition.

Belamay dipped her head, eye to eye. “I need you to make for the Dwarf village. 'Tis but a short distance away, but you must run. You must hurry.”

The willowy girl's jaw dropped, her head shaking slightly. “The D-Dwarf Village?” With each syllable, Talia's voice squeaked higher.

Belamay nodded slowly, patiently. “Yes. But have no fear. Speak my name to any who would question or cross you, and I swear,” here, Belamay took both of Talia's hands and clasped them in hers, as if they prayed as one, “I swear to you, ye will come to no harm.”

Talia snapped shut her trembling mouth. She nodded unenthusiastically, not looking wholly convinced.

“That's my girl.” Belamay awarded her with a smile. “Ask for Pagmav, he is their healer. Tell him a life needs his hands.”

“P… Pagmav?” Talia stuttered on the unfamiliar name, moving slowly, a specter in a dream… a nightmare.

Belamay nodded. “Pagmav, yes.” Raising her voice, a clip of harshness crept its way in. She spun the girl by the shoulders, turned her toward the eastward path leading away from the manor, and gave her a soft push. “Go!”

She gave a command, one not to be denied.

Lifting her plain muslin skirt, Talia scampered away without looking back, a child running from the marauding monster of her dreams, or perhaps towards one.

Belamay huffed relief, spinning round.

“Help me, Belamay.”

Witon perched—trapped—half-way upon his steed, trying to hold the small, battered body in one hand while he attempted to lower himself from the stately beast with the other, the arm so fiercely injured. The added weight threw off his balance and his body jammed, stuck between on and off.

Belamay ran to him, reaching up and bracing Witon's back with both hands. She planted her boot-clad feet in the packed dirt of the courtyard. With her support, Witon made the descent, the body in his arms now completely limp, but not lifeless. The rapid heartbeat pulsed visibly in the slim neck.

“We cannot wait.” Witon ran for the still open door. “We must at least try to stem the bleeding.”

Inside the manor, he paused, blinded for a moment after the brilliance of sunlight in the courtyard, then made for the stairs along the west wall, knowing they were there, having climbed them on many an occasion.

He reached the second-floor landing; Belamay's clopping steps followed behind, thudding on the stone like thunderclaps.

“Which room?” he shouted, loudly, urgently.

“The end on the left.” Belamay pointed over his shoulder.

Witon rushed ahead, reaching the closed door in seconds, using a large, booted foot to kick it open.

The small, simple room contained a single bed, ready should a guest or passing traveler need accommodation. It held little else save a washstand and a small garderobe.

With a gentleness belying his exigency, Witon placed the creature upon the bed with excruciating tenderness, mindful of the horrifically injured limb.

The tall man hovered over the small creature, looking even smaller upon the large bed, and felt a pull on his heart. “We must save him.”

“Him?” Belamay asked from just behind Witon.

Witon brought his broad shoulders up to his ears, nodding. “Yes, I think.”

He turned to her, his face smeared with dirt and blood, yet his silver eyes glistened with tears and a furrow ran deep between his downturned brows.

“Some cloths, Belamay, please.”

At the washstand, Belamay pulled out every cloth from the shelf below and plunged them into his waiting hands, then turned back, grabbing the terracotta pitcher.

“Be right back,” she said over her shoulder, rushing from the room.

Witon stood motionless, cloths clamped in his large hands, looking down, helpless, no notion what to do. But of course, he did. He had been on too many battlefields—seen too many souls die, some in his arms—not to know.

He dropped to his knees by the bed, placing the bunched fabric next to the small body. With a touch as light as a Faerie's, he eased the dangling arm so the ripped ends of flesh abutted each other. The creature stirred; legs thrashing ever so weakly, face crumbling and scrunching with silent pain. Witon turned from it; he could not do what needed to be done if he didn't. There was something in that face… the long, slanted eyes, the small, pointed nose… that begged for his care—and he would give it.

Once the limb was in place, Witon packed it with cloth. Not daring to lift it, he gently covered the wound with wads of material on both sides and on top, material that quickly splotched and stained a strange shade of puce.

With that done—all that he could—Witon lifted a hand, placing it on the creature's forehead; he felt no fever and closed his eyes, feeling another small moment of relief. On opening them again, his face blossomed with surprise, for, even as he stroked the small head, the creature's writhing dissipated. The legs stilled, the face unclenched, as if Witon's touch had worked the magic of some calming elixir. Witon almost smiled… almost.

“Step aside, Sir.” A wizened voice reached him from behind. Witon flinched. “If you please.”

The speaker stood no taller than Witon's hip, yet something in the very manner of this Dwarf demanded obedience. Witon stepped aside, and the grey-haired, elderly Dwarf took his place. Tucking his long beard into his robe of brown wool, Pagmav—for it could be no other—scanned the injured creature from head to foot.

“'Tis his arm that—” Witon began, or tried to.

Pagmav turned, placing a wrinkled, age-spotted hand upon Witon's arm, looking up with eyes of oak brown. “I know, dear Count, how much you care for this life. Leave it in my hands. I will see to it.”

Witon knew nothing of this Dwarf; had never laid eyes on him, yet Pagmav knew him. Witon believed his promise, every word.

“Come, Witon.” Belamay took him by the arm as Pagmav's hand released him, pulling gently. “Let him do his work. He will do it well, I swear it to you.”

Witon looked down at this wondrous woman, her raven ringlets falling about her round face. In that moment, he felt nothing but gratitude to them both.

“See to your man's wound,” the Dwarf healer said without turning round, leaning against the bedside, removing all manner of tools and devices from the large leather bag he had brought with him.

With a nod to Pagmav and a last look at the life he prayed to the Stars to save, Witon quit the room, following Belamay's lead.

Chapter III: REST AND RELIEF

“Would you send a page to the field?”

He sat on the edge of her large, canopied bed. She sat behind him, her legs splayed, one on each side of his body, as she cleansed his wound… as she wrapped and tied it with pristine white linen.

Head tilted to the left, his wounded side, Belamay nodded. “What message do ye wish to send?”

Witon shook his head, grime-filled russet hair swinging against now bare shoulders.

“No message, just…” his chin fell toward his bare chest, “… just an accounting. Of the fighting, if it still continues, of the numbers left on the field, whether or not my men made it safely away.”

Belamay finished her ministrations, tying off the cloth, tightly enough to ebb the flow of slow, trickling blood, but not too tightly as to cause discomfort. With a grunt of satisfaction, she shimmied around her lover's body and stood before him, still dressed in her soldier's garb.

Leaning down, she took his wide chin in her hand and lifted it, her large black eyes meeting his pale ones.

“I will do so if you promise to lie down. To rest, at least, if not to sleep.”

Witon looked upon the face that brought him such joy, that filled his heart to bursting, and knew it for its softness as well as for the strength behind it.

“To rest at least,” he agreed.

Belamay sniffed, with a small shrug of her shoulders. It was the best she could expect from him; she knew it as truth. But she took not one step from him, and he rolled his eyes.

Now it was his turn to shimmy, up and fully onto the bed, laying his pate upon the silk and satin pillows. He gazed at her smugly.

“Fine,” Belamay snipped, a mother to a child. “Stay there or I will tell ye naught I learn.”

Once more, Witon felt his eyes roll, but this time he found them heavy. Perhaps to close them for a few moments would not be such a bad thing after all.

* * *

“Mayhaps we should let him sleep.” A man's voice, thin and with the slightest of warbles.

“No, he would want to know as soon as possible.”

That voice he knew; the dulcet tones of his Belamay brought him up from the void.

Witon's eyes fluttered open. They stood right beside him, Belamay and Pagmav, observing him like a specimen in a cage.

“What do I want to know?” he asked, gently easing himself up to a sitting position with the use of his good right arm. He squinted at them through dusk's fading light lilting through the slatted shutters with soft, horizontal rays. Two hours he had surrendered to sleep, perhaps more.

“Your young friend,” Pagmav croaked.

Any vestiges of sleep Witon threw off like a rough, coarse blanket.

“Does… h… h…?”

“He, oh yes, most definitely a he,” Pagmav said, rubbing his face with a long-fingered hand. Witon could see the fatigue, though the Dwarf tried to wipe it away.

Nodding with satisfaction, as if an itch had been scratched, Witon asked, “Does he live?”

“He does,” Belamay said quickly. “And he should regain the use of his arm, most of it, at least.”

“And as long as he receives care and plenty of rest, he should live a long life, if his Elfish blood has any say in the matter.”

“He is… an Elf?” Witon's voice squeaked like that of an adolescent boy.

“Partly.” Pagmav waddled to the large, cushioned chair in the near corner and dropped his round body into it, feet lifting from the ground as he scurried backward to rest his small spine. “And part Human.”

“No!” The astonished exclamation resounded from both Witon and Belamay.

In this kingdom of Minra Erna there lived Centaurs and Elves, Trolls and Dwarves, Faeries and Brownies, Goblins and Humans, their co-existence in constant discord. At least as long as history had been written. To think two tender souls had risked so much, all for love, was rare… astonishingly rare.

“'Tis true.” Pagmav leaned his head back and closed his eyes, but not his mouth. “It is the only half-breed of the kind I have ever seen. It took me a while to understand his physiology.”

“But you did, as I knew only you could,” Belamay cooed, stepping to the healer and taking his hand. Witon wondered upon the sight; a Human woman tenderly holding the hand of a Dwarf. It bound them, she and Witon; one of the many bonds strengthening their love ever tighter, ever brighter. “There is a hearty dinner waiting for you whenever ye are ready.”

Wrinkled lids crinkled with a smile. “Thank you, my dear. I've just suddenly realized how hungry I am.”

Even with Belamay's assistance, it took some effort for the tired Dwarf to heft his form from the chair enveloping him with its cushiony succor. At the door, he turned back.

“I meant what I said, he will recover. But it must be under the most recuperative of surroundings… medical supervision, a clean environment, good food. Without all these, all will not be well.”

Witon stood—bandaged, eyes rimmed with smudges of fatigue—with an indisputable air. “I swear it to you, Sir, he will receive all he needs and more. By my honor.”

Pagmav nodded slowly, contented. None called the honor of Count Witon into question… not a creature alive, whatever sort of creature they may be.

“May I look in on him?” Witon asked, a step behind the elderly Dwarf's tottering feet.

Holding up a single finger, Pagmav conceded, “Look, no more. Do not wake him. He will do so when his body is ready for him to, no sooner.”

Witon followed the Dwarf out; as the healer made for the stairs leading down and to the kitchen, Witon crossed the hall, passing well-dressed and healthy-looking servants, two young men and two young women, carrying a copper tub and buckets of hot water into Belamay's room.

Witon almost turned back at the images flashing in his mind's eye, of her curvaceous body submerged in warm water, lathered and slick with fragrant soap. But he needed to see the young creature first. He needed to see he lived.

Slowly, Witon cracked the spare room door open, a drawn-out creak by little-used hinges announced his arrival. Tiptoeing across the room, he stood by the bedside once more. He smiled at profuse signs of efficiency: the cleaned skin; the perfectly measured stitches just visible through the thin linen binding the monstrous wound; the precisely sized pieces of wood bound to the arm in three places, rendering it immovable. He must remember to ask Pagmav how long the bindings needed to stay in place.

A tinge of color blossomed now on the young creature's face, a deeper shade of green, though not the dense green of a full-blooded Elf. But it was enough to gift Witon a breath of crisp relief.

Leaning down, he placed his large hand once more upon the creature's forehead.

“I know not what binds us, my friend,” he whispered, a hint of amusement in his low tone, “but bound we are. I know it. I swear fealty to you. I swear to see ye well once more.”

As he gently pushed the pin-straight hair—a dark blonde, Witon thought, seeing it through the layers of mud that sullied it—off the creature's face, he thought he saw the thin lips flicker as if in a smile.

It was enough.

Chapter IV: REJOICE AND RENEWAL

He entered her room, calming jasmine and lavender scents assailing him. Still immersed in the tub, Witon saw only her bare shoulders, her thick abundant hair, wet, and pinned atop her head. Steam wafted from the water and her body, a haze of thin, white vapor as if a magical cloud enveloped her. In his mind, in his heart, it surely did.

Belamay smiled when she saw him. “He is well?”

Witon nodded. “He sleeps… a restful sleep.”

“'Tis good,” Belamay said, rubbing a soapy cloth on a raised arm. “Are you hungry?”

Witon sniffed, amused. He prowled toward her, his appetite increasing with every step.

“Oh, indeed. I am ravenous.” He stood at the very side of the tub now, and now he could see through the water, seeing every curve of her naked body, the thatch of dark hair at the 'v' formed by the joining of her long legs. “But not for food.”

His eyes narrowed, glowing, a small smile tickling one corner of his full mouth. The pink bloom on Belamay's cheeks spread, not solely from the warmth of the water.

Witon reached out and took the cloth and the lump of soap from her hands. As Belamay rested her arms upon the rim of the tub, Witon rubbed the sweet-smelling square—a mixture of her favored herbs, oil of olives, and soda powder—till the concoction coated the cloth with a thick, foamy lather. Kneeing beside the tub, he began at her neck.

With slow, luxurious strokes, he swiped the cloth from hairline down, sweeping along her lithe form, down across her collarbone to her buoyant breasts, stopping just at the tips of her large, beige nipples. With each caress, Belamay's breath hitched, gained speed, her full breasts heaving each time. Mesmerized by the sight, Witon's gaze flicked from their bounty to his lover's face. She had closed her eyes and opened her mouth with the pleasure he brought her, and the sight sent his already hardened penis straining against his breeches. He would give her more, so much more.

Now he brought the cloth down her shoulders, lifting her arms to lather them top and bottom. His other hand followed, the slick skin of his palm rubbing each arm, up and down, his sinewy forearm grazing each nipple as it passed up, then down, each nub hardening at the touch.

Belamay moaned and Witon knew she needed more, as did he.

He touched the cloth to that exquisite space between each breast, a hollow where all manner of comfort waited. With a slowness that set them both trembling, he lowered the cloth inch by inch along the curve of her abdomen, toward first one hip and then the other and then, finally, to the thatch of hair between her legs, to the swollen lips waiting impatiently for him there.

Witon tossed away the cloth; he needed—he must—feel her for himself. Still kneeling beside the tub, he brushed back the curls falling around her face as Belamay rocked her body, thrusting her pelvis up in need and hope. With his left, he touched her, explored her. The lips slick with her wetness, the clit so engorged, so in need.

“Witon, please…” Her breath a harsh whisper, and he looked up to find her staring at him, the same lust thumping in his heart writ all over her face. He smiled and reached for her hands. One he set to the laces of his breeches, eliciting a low groan in the back of his throat each time she pulled one loose, each time his hardness felt a brush of her fingers. Her other hand he lathered and placed upon her own breast, guiding her to tease her own nipple with her fingers, to draw circles round it, to pinch and squeeze it gently.

Belamay set herself to the task of her pleasure, spinning her taut nipple tween thumb and forefinger, the hand on his laces trembling and shaking.

Witon continued his exploration with his other hand, stroking her clitoris now, back and forth, knowing precisely where to flick, where to press. Belamay groaned harder as she pushed herself against him.

“Oh, Stars, yes,” Witon heard his own impassioned voice.

Belamay released the last of his laces, releasing his long, engorged penis and lathered it with her hand, stroking it with the smoothness till it flinched with need, till it began to dribble with the coming explosion.

He looked down at her, their eyes locked in their pleasure. How it enticed him to watch each other as they brought their bodies to ultimate bliss.

Belamay moved her hand from her breast, reached down and took his from her clit. Without releasing his gaze, she took his hand, grasped his middle finger and plunged it into her. Together they groaned, surrendering completely to the pleasure. She helped him as he pumped it in and out for a moment, then moved her own fingers to her abandoned clitoris. Witon broke their gaze long enough to see their hands upon her beauty. Their moans deepened; love and lust burning together in their once again fixed and locked stare.