Bastille Day

… a ripple of awe flows away from her in an outward wave. Seconds later, reciprocating waves resound off of her as the awe turns to indignation, indignation to spite. The crowd turns all attention to the source of this cruel interruption. They spit explicatives at her, "Pagan!"… "Whore!" Rough hands grab at her, everyone about her reaching out, working as one to silence her heresy. Realizing her gaffe, she tries to run, to flee their wrath. In one brief moment, she has managed to steal their animal frenzy… broken their blood high, today’s pleasure lost. She is caught and roughhoused back.

Women scratching her flesh, men squeezing her hard. A hand crashes into the side of her face and she stumbles… falls. As a mass of feet and circle about her body, her soul dives inward: a fragile bird retreating to the safety within. Darkness overcomes her…

* * * * *

Sore eyes flutter… she is aware of cool silk lying over her, under her. A soft embroidered pillow cradles her head. She stirs slightly, turning onto her back, and immediately cries out as a searing pain stabs through her arm. Her memories flood back at once… and she begins to cry.

A deep, soft voice enters her, "It hurts?" "Of course it hurts" he scolds himself as fingers move along her neck.

She tries to pull away, wincing as lightening erupts in her head.

"No girl. Stay still now. I only want to help you." His voice flows into her like cool water. She slowly turns her head in his direction, eyes seeking him out.

His fingers arrest her movement as they close over the fleshy muscle where her shoulder and arm meet, fingers suddenly applying firm pressure along the joint. Another hand grasps her elbow and, without warning, rips it outward. She screams out as her shoulder flares, her arm being torn from her. Somewhere within her mind, the tiny bird screams with her and cowers within its shrinking sanctuary.

She floats between worlds… aware of a soft "cooing". Cold water flows over her shoulder, the pain a memory. The refreshing coolness washes over her chest along her ribs. Her skin rippling with gooseflesh as the welcome rush flows across her hips, over her thighs and rivulets between her legs, down to her sex.

Her eyes open much slower this time. She drinks in the night air as she listens to his soft voice again. Aware now that her body is uncovered, unclothed. She shivers as his hand runs the soft sponge along her calves, icy cold water dripping behind her knee.

"Ah, you will live after all" he chuckles as he gently places her leg down. Moving to her side, he drops his hand into a bucket, squeezes the sponge once, then strokes it up her stomach…. He leans closer as the sponge squishes along between her breasts… over her chest. Once there, moving to stroke at her hot neck and throat. "Feeling a bit better my love?". He lifts the sponge over her as long fingers gently milk cold droplets into her mouth. She opens her lips, welcomes the gift.

"Who are you?". A light flares beside her. Hands cupping flame as a candle is lit. She is not shocked when his face turns to her. His eyes alighting upon her. "You".. then "thank you".

"No. thank you. Another today heard your words. The king spared us all. Though we will never be freed." He shrugs as his hands guide the sponge over her shoulder again. The pain is much less.

"I’m sorry I had to hurt you earlier," his words melt into her, "but without it, your shoulder would never have healed."

"Why am I here. Why are you here?"

"Shhh… rest now", he whispers. "I asked the king to allow me to thank you for your bravery. He complied graciously. I have two days to treat your bruises".

She glances about the room, the candlelight dancing off teak and silver. Painted bodies dancing on a tapestry. Their forms moving together in the candlelight. For the first time today, she closes her eyes from comfort as he "coos" lightly. Her comfort kindling pleasure as cool, light fingers trail icy liquid along the curve of her breast. Circling about taut nipples...