Friday, April 12, 2013


He roused slowly from a dream in which he was enveloped in her warm, lush scent, lying in beneath the tickling tendrils of a living willow. Blinking, the trailing teasing of the leaves above his face remained. He'd awakened with her hair twining over his nose and brow.

The sensation of her dark locks winding their way over him recalled their last joining, during which he cajoled her to ride him until he could take no more. Her hair enveloped them in a dark tent as she leaned forward, moaning into his mouth as she came again. The rich, breathy sound called forth his own orgasm, as if a siren had summoned his manhood to her bidding. He was hers, emptying his loins and his heart as she sighed her pleasure.

The recollection pulled at him just as her moan had last evening. He wrapped himself around his sleeping siren, his own heat next to the wetness of hers, hoping she would emerge from the depths of her torpor soon, to call him to her service again.

He would gladly dash himself on her bewitching vessel if only she would awake, and soon.

Copyright © 2013 Femme Malheureuse
Words: 193
Originally submitted to Sinful Sunday—Week 23 via Rebecca Grace Allen
Photo prompt: origin unknown | Word prompt: Cajole

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