Nettled

The morning matches her mood, bright and sunny with the promise of sultry heat before noon. She smiles, tucking away a stray strand of hair that cavorts with the open window beside her. In the distance, against the azure sky, puffy white clouds frolic with a flock of sparrows. She glances at the handsome face of the man beside her, his eyes on the road, tension in his frame and the small muscle of the jaw. Watching his eyes flicker to the clock and back to the road for the fifth time in as many minutes she bites back a smile.

"We'll probably be the first ones there, Michael." Her eyes play over his familiar features with pleasure, noting the small laugh lines around his eyes and the flicker of movement at the corner of his lips.

He hated being late, compulsively driven in this way as in so many others. She feels the SUV speed up yet again and turns her gaze back to the road, knowing that her high spirits would only aggravate him further.

Their turn off approaches and she wriggles in her seat with anticipation, gathering wet sacks and stray equipment from around her as he pulls down the gravel drive leading to the river, the kayaks jouncing on top of the vehicle. No other cars are present and once again, she bites back a smile.

"Stop dawdling, Cyn, let's get this stuff unpacked." Low and well modulated, his accent licks at her senses despite the terse tone.

"Yes, Michael," she replies, subduing her high spirits and biting back any mention that the vehicle has yet to stop.

Her door is open and she's hopping down before he's put it into park. His admonishing glance sets off wary warnings in her head -- he's been spoiling for...something...all morning - and she offers him a conciliatory smile, her eyes wide with appreciation that seems to mollify.

Together they dismount the two kayaks, carrying them down the bank, making several trips for the rest of the equipment. Returning for her paddle, their paths cross and silently, his mind elsewhere, Michael hands her the glass mug, gesturing for its return to the car. Again, she glances in the direction that holds his attention seeing nothing save the fallen trunk of an oak tree and the long, plush growth of river nettles, their stalks swaying in the breeze.

Even after eight years, he still beguiles her. Cyn's eyes caress his profile, noting the unruly locks of hair, black and silver, that flirt with the nape of his neck and makes a mental note to call the barber. Turning away, she steps up the slope and beneath her foot, a rock slips and she stumbles, dropping the glass with a peal of dismay, lunging after it. Too late, she watches it shatter, bouncing off rock and into the sand.

"Oh! Michael, I'm sorry," indigo and emerald, the shards glitter in the morning sun. Her dismay is real, knowing his favor for that piece and she looks to him, her eyes clouding with repentance.

One look at his countenance has her scrambling toward him, dropping quickly to her knees at his feet, ankles tucked beneath her haunches. A small, thoughtful smile nudges the corner of his lips while emotion glitters in his eyes, the culmination of all the small nuisances of the morning and she feels a knot, deep in her belly, form.

Several moments pass, the ominous silence ringing in her ears. Shimmering, her gaze lifts to follow his to the downed oak. Slowly, deliberately cruel, his large hand reaches down, strong fingers tangling deeply into the roots of her hair, he begins walking toward the tree.

He offers her no ease and she struggles to rise and follow, her pulse quickening in quiet panic. His long stride has her at a disadvantage, tears of pain forming as he uses her hair as a leash, dragging her beside him. When he stops, raising his hand and pulling her scalp until she totters on tiptoes, the rough trunk, downed from some distant storm, sprawls before her.

Dark eyes narrow and search hers, glittering with dark intensity, his body taut and coiled. She whimpers, the first tear spilling down her cheek. "Belly down, spread your legs for me wide, kaji," the cool tone and the cadence of the words he uses send a surge of bewildered dread through her mind, a shiver burrowing in her belly. Rarely cruel, she wonders how she's misread him so completely.

His hand releases her hair, several long blonde strands clinging to his fingers, her yelp of pain bringing the smile more fully to the corners of his lips. Playing with the strands, he watches her body scamper across the rich leaf lined ground and she can feel the smile amplify dangerously. Any hesitation will only garner further irritation, of that Cyn is well aware.

"Remove your clothing first, pet," his voice rumbles from over her shoulder, receding and she hazards a glance in his direction, her fingers scrabbling to remove shorts and t-shirt and the bikini beneath them.

Suddenly, his intent becomes crystal clear, and a small cry of dismay spills from behind bitten lips, the gathered stalks of river nettles rustling in his hand.

"Display," as he strides back toward her his voice dangerously low pitched, the command brooking no argument, her belly finds the rough barked log, her hands bracing against the ground on the far side, thighs splayed wide, already bearing the first rough scratches from the bark beneath her. The grit of sand and bark beneath her breasts rubs and scores with each rapid pant of breath, her eyes craning backward, dreading his approach.

"Oh no, Michael, please..." pleading her anguish, the cry seems to please and irritate at the same time, bringing a hard set to his jaw, dark eyes pinning hers, disapproval and dark hunger clear in their depths. Silently, she bows her head, turning her gaze from him, bracing herself, physically and mentally for the first raw caress of natures lash.

"Count for me, Cyn," His booted foot falls sharply against one defenseless ankle and then the other, spreading her wider with a grunt of satisfaction. One long coarse nettle stem traces a slow pattern up the inside of one thigh, causing her to flinch, tracing the cleft of her ass, making her shudder. She feels his shift in stance and suddenly, shockingly, the first fall of liquid fire rains down on the tender skin of her thighs.

"One," a squeal of sharp distress falls between them.

Again, the custom switch finds tender nooks, leaving their welts and fire to cover her thighs, her cry of "two" tremblingly vulnerable. A deft flick and they fall on the full cheeks of her bottom, the curve of each hip and the flesh of her lower back. The numbers fall in succession, piquant cries of pain, transmuting to pleasure as the fiery welts subjugate to her belly leaving a seething hunger to roil there.

"Two more, delightful tramp, and then I want you to reach backward and open yourself to me." Her mind quails, body striving forward on the log as her imagination conjures the fall of stinging nettles on intimate flesh, so evocative she almost misses the count.

"N..nine....ten."

Struggling to find balance, the press of her body aggravates the scratches on her belly and breasts, making her wince, supple fingers reaching back, contorting her body into a bow and spreading the firm curves of her ass for him. Her mind quivers, seething with humiliation, dread and a rich, greedy erotic shame.

So focused is she on the imminent pain before her, she misses the subtle sound of rustling clothing. His hands, landing on the small of her back startle and she edges forward in surprise, abrading already tender skin, a sob falling from her lips, tears coursing down her cheeks.

"Beautiful things, these river nettles," low and saturated with satisfaction, his voice drifts over her, his knees planted in the sand, his thighs pressing hers wider yet while his hands circle her hips. "Remember your first run in with them Cyn? I've never forgotten it." The tip of one stalk, still grasped in one hand, shivers in the breeze, dipping down to caress her shoulder with its molten touch.

The shimmer of memory ripples through her and she nods, mutely, remembering the first time she'd stumbled into a stand of them. Different river, different year, same hungry -- though unintentional - licking pain. Different Michael then as well, his fingers soothing each welt with antiseptic and easing the burn with gentle fingers. A sob catches in her throat.

"I've been admiring this stand since the beginning of summer, Cyn," rough with tension, each word strokes her ears, shivering through her mind. Bewilderment turns, slowly, to a surge of liquid heat in her belly.

Hot and solid, the press of him between her thighs, the hard nudge against her sexes lips heightens her arousal, drying her tears, the surprise of his choice feeding the fire. It's rare for him to snatch and grab, his pleasure usually more intricate and drawn out. He'd been hungry for her all morning, his mind playing with this scene and that knowledge blisters her imagination, swamping her senses in greedy, wanton need.

The sharp, indrawn breath and sudden stillness behind her tells her he's monitoring her, as always, aware of her response. In the distance, the sound of a car door rings muted behind the pant of their breath.

"No, little slut, not this time...this is for me." His hands tighten, biting into the flesh of her hips and surging into her, filling her, topping out and nudging her depths with the strength of his thrust.

Her cry of pleasure ends with a grunt of pain, belly clenching, the deep seated ache fueling the pool in her belly. His groan, deep and primal, falls on her ears and shivers through her, coruscating ripples of pleasure inundating her senses, lapping outward toward her sex, and in a moment everything coalesces, leaving her straining for control.

"Don't...you...dare," each word comes on a downward thrust, the tension in his voice growing more taut with each, their staccato delivery forewarning.

Pain radiates, from his grip at her hips and the bark below her breasts and belly, from the deep press of him, demanding more than she can provide comfortably, all helping her regain some control, clenching her sex hard in denial, frenzied moans torn from her with each thrust as she writhes against tense, stressed muscles and the furious demands of her partners hunger.

Behind her, his body tightens, pulling out of her, a sensually primitive grunt of lust growling from him, the sexiest sound in her world as he holds back for a moment, then two.

She holds herself, wide, trembling with her own need and takes his next thrust, maxing out his length inside her as she clenches, hard, a rippling grip of muscle around him. He shudders, her name an expletive from his lips as he pours himself inside of her, hands wrapped like steel at her waist, a heady grunt of release to taunt her ears.

Her mind, in quiet desperation, slips into subspace, each ripple and spurt of his pleasure buffered by a hazy distance as she holds her pose, muscles trembling. "Hold," her mind whispers, knowing him, climax an intense moment of void where he prefers no distractions. Her mind drifts on a cloud of pleasure, waiting. "Fucking tramp of my dreams," the words murmur in her ear, exotic with their Aussie accent, his teeth savaging her shoulder with the final buck inside of her. His arms slip around her body lifting her against him, her head on his shoulder, her cheek against his jaw, both wet with her tears.

Scuffling noises and car doors intrude into her haze and her eyes open, focusing on his pointed stare. She watches him, watching her return to him, fascination lurking in the depths of his eyes as she realigns her world. He sets her on feet, rising and bringing her with him, satisfaction evident in every line of his body.

A moment passes and another, silence between them, his fingers playing with a length of her hair before he nudges her away, slipping out of her and leaving her feeling a moment of aching loss.

"Go, get your clothes and clean up your mess," his eyes track back to the glowing green and blue shards thirty feet away, bringing a blush of color to her cheeks. Her eyes meet his and she nods her acceptance, silently.

Slowly, she does as she's told, senses achingly brilliant. The heated nip of the nettle bites cascade over her back, bottom and thighs like a living lash and as she reaches for her bikini, slipping it over her feet and up her thighs, she registers the spill of warm, viscous fluid between them, sliding the slick nylon high to catch the flow. Fitting her top in place and reaching for her shorts and t-shirt she turns, her eyes searching for glass shards.

A quiet smile for the dichotomy of her emotions sweeps over her face. Her flesh; un-sated and greedily demanding, her mind; sated and replete with the knowledge that this time, she'd given him more than she'd received, satisfaction replete in every line of her body. Adoration and fierce pride inundates her even as her fingers reach for the small pile of jewel colored shards in the sand before her.