sam_storyteller: (Blue Moon Coffee)
sam_storyteller ([personal profile] sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-16 10:20 am
Entry tags:

Lady Mine, Come Down; R, Original.

Summary: Meetings, lemon trees, and wishes.
Warnings: None.
Rating: R (sexual content).
Notes: The poem in this short story is actually a song from the last movie version of The Importance of Being Earnest.

Originally Posted 12.2.06


The western wind is blowing fair
Across the dark Aegaean sea...

It starts simply enough.

They meet on the train coming home at night. He's smart, well-read, knows the book she's reading, asks her what she thinks. She's clever and pretty and frank, and she tells him exactly what she thinks. They have the same stop. That's where they part ways.

They greet as acquaintances, the next time, and talk again; this time he doesn't stop to buy a soda outside the station, and only ends the conversation on his own doorstep.

A familiar routine. It's safer walking home after dark with someone else, after all. He's pleasant. She finishes the book and starts on another and tells him about it.

One night he's carrying a cloth bag, a shopping bag. He runs to catch the train when he sees she's on it.

"I brought you something," he says, eyes dropping away. He shakes the bag. "A picnic. If you want to," he adds lamely. "I thought we could have dinner at my place -- or yours, or yours," he says hastily, when he sees the slight mistrust cross her face.

They settle for the stoop of his building, eating bread and cheese and slices of apple he cuts with a pocketknife, licking his fingers afterwards. They talk for the first time about who they are -- he works downtown, she's a student, she has a class near his work in fact. He knows the little place down a side-street where she sometimes goes for a sandwich, but he's been afraid to try it.

She invites him to lunch.

It's like dancing.

He accepts her offer. He asks her to coffee. She thinks she ought to return the favour, and asks him up for tea one night. He kisses her goodbye when he leaves.

And at the secret marble stair
My Tyrian galley waits for thee.

Another picnic lunch, this time a surprise on a Friday, when he knows she's tired from classes. He'll cook it all, he promises, and she unlocks the door, lets him into her flat, comfortable now.

He's brought bread, and he unpacks it on her counter. Following it, jams and butters, and she realises he doesn't know what she likes, but he wants to.

"Marmalade?" he asks. "Or strawberry jam? Butter? Peanut butter -- "

He bought a tiny jar of peanut butter. She picks it up and examines it.

"You like peanut butter?" he asks hopefully.

"Just butter, please," she answers. He asks if she'd rather have spaghetti sauce or alfredo.

She can have just what she likes, she thinks. She's tired, and she can have exactly the thing she wants, just for tonight.

There is a lemon tree growing outside her window, that rubs its branches against her balcony. They eat there, and he picks fresh lemons and adds a little of one to his water. He likes lemons. He learns she likes oranges better, but apples best of all.

He has a warm smile, everything about him is warm -- warm, tanned skin, warm brown hair, and against all odds the gold in his green eyes is warm, as well. It is a nice contrast to her pale skin, dark hair, her hands which always feel too cold.

He has little things to tell her, parts of his day he's stored up, perhaps for her alone. He gives them to her like presents, waiting to see her face light up with interest. They are the only two in the world, and she is the only thing he looks at, resting his chin in one elegant hand.

She watches the play of pale fingers across dark cheek and wonders if she could spend the rest of her life being learned by him. Each lesson more intriguing than the last.

She wonders if he's considering spending the rest of his life learning her.

She is imperfect, mistrustful, skittish with him; but then sometimes he seems tongue-tied, and while he is tall and strong he's also awkward, even clumsy. She is unhappy even with him there, though she wants him to stay. He has no idea how to solve her unhappiness, but he wants to. So he brings her bread and jam and little jars of peanut butter.

Come down, the purple sail is spread
The watchman sleeps within the town;

There is music up from the courtyard, and once again they are no longer the sole inhabitants of the world. He stands and she follows, reaching for his plate; instead he takes her hand, and pulls her away from the table. The music makes him want to dance, like the lemon in his water and the way she smiled when he asked what she wanted, and the little wine he's had.

She doesn't drink. She thinks he wants to ask why -- religion, taste, perhaps fear of addiction -- but then everyone has a vice. He doesn't ask. He'll learn that when she lets him.

The balcony is small and they dance close, his fingers spread across the small of her back, his other hand twined with hers. They sway gently, and he murmurs two names as her body warms to his, closes with his a little.

"Baucis and Philemon," he says, in her ear. She can't see his face; her chin is resting on his shoulder.

"Who are they?" she askes softly.

"Lovers who were given one wish," he answers. He pushes her away, a little, and turns her so that her back is now against his chest, her hands and his crossed over her waist. She leans back and lets him move them, closing her eyes.

"What did they wish for?"

"That they would die the same instant, so one would never be without the other."

His palms are warm on top of her hands, and he smells like lemons and good things, spicy cologne, linen shirts. He dares a kiss on the edge of her ear. Her temple. She tilts her head up and he kisses her again on the lips, just barely familiar.

He is hungry still, wanting to taste her, and he is comforting, like an extra blanket, making her fingers tingle, as if she's been out in the cold.

One of his hands slips under the shirt she wears, fingers pressing against her belly, questioningly. The touch makes her ache in ways she didn't think she could.

"Inside?" he asks, and she nods, and is cold when she steps away from him. He follows her, closing the door behind them, slipping his hands down over her waist, tracing the outline of her hips, her thighs. He's close to her now and she can feel the heat of him, the erection pressing against her, raw desire transmuted into something like worship.

O, leave thy lily-flowered bed
And lady mine, come down...

She turns in his arms and lets him walk her gently backwards, into the bedroom, falling on the bed, arms spread above her, dark hair fanning out on the blanket. His lips find her pulse, his teeth nibble gently at her skin. His hands unbutton her shirt, and his eyes meet hers --

"What do you want?" he asks, and she realises this is like the dinner and the conversation and the dancing, tonight is for her.

He licks gently at her collarbone, and she moans. Kisses lower, between her breasts, undressing her further. Her fingers stroke through his hair, gently guiding him, and he follows, nuzzling her breasts, lips closing on one nipple. His mouth is so hot and his body, hard and thin, bucks against hers.

They struggle out of clothes, rolling, tongues twining, hands stroking and exploring, until she finds herself straddling his hips, his hands on her bare waist, his eyes deep and hungry, gazing up at her. Her hands grip his wrists, and he releases her, using his fingers to guide her own across her body.

His hand covers hers as he presses the tips of her fingers to her breast, showing her how to stroke, how to gently draw her fingernails across the sensitive places, places she would never touch on her own. There is a peculiar tension in her stomach and between her thighs, half-fear, half-longing...

"We can still stop," he murmurs hoarsely. He guides her, drawing her hand down between her breasts, over her smooth skin.

"Why?" she breathes.

"Are you afraid?" he asks. "I won't laugh."

"Yes. But I -- "

He has pressed her own fingers inside her, and she gasps as the tension suddenly increases there, though the warm lassitude filling the rest of her body makes her sway and close her eyes. Their hands move together, until he pulls his own away and slips it around her waist again, lifting her a little.

His erection rubs against her thighs and he moans, asking her gently to arch, so that he can -- oh...

He fits inside her, filling her, joined to her body by points of hot desire -- hands, thighs, other places that make her cry out, eyes closed.

"You can move," he says softly, moaning. She shifts her hips a little, and his body tenses. "You can move..."

She arches her back once more, and feels him press inside her, the rhythmic friction of his body agaist hers so good. Moans of need, deep hoarse encouragements and curses push her forward, faster, wanting this, wanting him to release this tension. She can feel herself on the cusp, feel her body tense and relax as she comes, head thrown back, feeling his left hand on her hip, his right supporting her on her stomach.

Sudden warmth fills her and she realises he has thrust up into her and found his own release.

He eases her down, rolling a little to put some of his weight on her, reassuringly, as their bodies part. He strokes her face, kisses her deeply.

He smells like lemons, still, and spicy cologne, and her.


Originally posted 12-06-03

[identity profile] 2006-12-02 07:24 pm (UTC)(link)
Yay, it's posted here! This one's definetely a personal favorite. And uhh... did you get my e-mail? XD

[identity profile] 2006-12-03 01:52 am (UTC)(link)
I did, I'm just really suck at replying *hits self* I will soon, I swear it!

[identity profile] 2006-12-03 02:26 am (UTC)(link)
Nooooo, don't hit yourself!! You might lose brain cells! You need those so that you can keep writing!

[identity profile] 2006-12-02 07:52 pm (UTC)(link)
Oh, I always liked this one. I'm glad to see you've finally posted it here. :)

[identity profile] 2006-12-02 09:49 pm (UTC)(link)
Oh, Sam. I really liked this. I'm not sure I could explain why, but I really did. Thank you for writing it.

[identity profile] 2006-12-03 12:30 am (UTC)(link)
Beautiful. Simple, yet elegant. I love it.

[identity profile] 2006-12-03 06:55 pm (UTC)(link)
I like this. I like the elegant simplicity, the gentleness and romance of the moments they share, the way you never mention their names, the ... whole of it, all the pieces moving together to fit like a perfect little gem one can cup in a hand and cherish forever.

Whoa. And here I thought it was impossible to find anything that could move me to such eloquence on a Sunday afternoon when I still must do all my homework! Good job, Sam. A most excellent job.

[identity profile] 2006-12-03 06:57 pm (UTC)(link)
Whoops! I forgot to say how much I like the bits of poem pieces you have here and there, sticking out like jewel-bright shells on the sparkling white sand.

[identity profile] 2006-12-04 06:21 pm (UTC)(link)
This is lovely, so simple and elegant and yet eloquent, and I love the way they're never named, and the way the couplets just make you stop and consider. For some reason I thought it was going to turn dark and scary -- maybe I've just been listening to too much Nick Cave -- but oh! lovely.

(The poem is actually by Oscar Wilde by the way -- is called _Serenade for Music_ -- )

[identity profile] 2006-12-10 05:19 pm (UTC)(link)
Ah! Thanks for the info. I'm adding it to my edits file for the next time I feel like a masochist, and will definitely credit the good Mr. Wilde :)

[identity profile] 2007-01-15 04:07 pm (UTC)(link)

[identity profile] 2007-01-18 01:51 pm (UTC)(link)
I can remember being in a similar relationship... Thank you for posting this. :)

[identity profile] 2007-02-09 04:48 am (UTC)(link)
My that was lovely. It just flows so nicely.

you know

[identity profile] 2007-04-27 09:09 am (UTC)(link)
you write excellent original fic ;-). I love this. thank you for sharing