Gifts From Dion

The candle flickered as another balmy breeze whipped through the window, and Daphne bit back a soft curse of annoyance as the light snuffed out. She lit it again, then quickly closed the blue curtain that crossed in front of cool stucco walls, hoping that the tie would hold it shut this time.

Outside, the sleepy coastal village was finally going dark.

Gloomy clouds on the distant horizon meant a storm threatened for morning, but so far, the immediate evening looked as if it would be clear and beautiful. Normally, she didn't mind the nighttime gusts that blew in off the gulf, as they brought with them relief from the hot days and ushered away the smell of the fishermens' wharf, but tonight she was busy, and she didn't have time to deal with the idle tantrums of a candle and the wind.

Daphne was on a time limit.

The moon had not yet risen in the star-filled sky, but she knew it wouldn't be much longer before it did so. Soon after, Dion would return home from the taverna, and she was not at all ready for that yet. While his friends had been instructed to keep him as busy drinking for as long as they could, Dion was not the sort to enjoy partying much longer than after nightfall. He swore he always wanted to return home to her.

But, Daphne was running behind; she had only just begun to prepare for the special evening. Today was the two-year anniversary of the day that Dion had taken her away from her horrific fate, the day he had granted her a future. As far as she knew, he was not aware of the significance of the date, and so she had the chance to surprise him for a change. Her unassuming beloved had made no comment on the importance of the day, had not whispered a celebration in the early morning hours when they'd woken together. He'd merely gone on with his day, and, surprisingly, Daphne had been happy about that.

There was still much to do, yet -- dessert to cook, her gift to finish, and she wasn't even dressed. The evening had seemed so far away at noon, and she had felt like she'd had so much time, but she'd lost track of the hours as she'd worked on her gifts for Dion. Now it was almost done, but everything else had fallen behind schedule.

She dressed quickly, using the tall, slender mirror that Dion had gifted her last year, when they had moved into this simple seaside cottage together. Foxes ran around the outside of the elaborate piece, chasing a butterfly that danced at the top of the design.

Using the silver mirror, she chose to slip into one of her favorite dresses: a silk dress, made of seafoam and cream, light and breathy even in the hot summer climate. Dion had hired a local seamstress to design it personally for her, and it clung to her body in a way that she knew her beloved couldn't resist. Looking at herself, she smiled slightly. The sheer fabric clung to her curves, the soft swell of her breasts and hips, reminding her of something she might have worn before she'd met Dion. But better, because it didn't have the same tainted memories.

She felt beautiful.

Finding the pearl-handled brush that she had received from Dion's mother, Daphne carefully combed out her long, dark hair. She'd bathed earlier, indulging in some of her fine floral oils to enhance her natural scent, and the olive oil she'd massaged into her locks left her hair soft and supple. She carefully twisted two strands of her hair into thin braids, then swept the braids and the rest of her locks back into a loose tie at the nape of her neck. It was a pale imitation of local fashion, but it drew attention to her slim neck.

For the first time in many months, Daphne applied some charcoal to her lashes, then drew a light outline around her eyes. It made the emerald of her eyes pop a bit more, which Dion had always complimented. She applied the expensive powdered rouge that Dion had bought for her on one of his travels through the eastern lands, though only lightly.

Lastly, she donned the simple necklace that her lover had given her on the first day after he had bought her. It was a thin silver chain that wrapped tightly around her throat, adorned with a pendant of a pink jewel that was carved into the shape of a woman. She lifted a finger to the jewel now, remembering what Dion had said when he had gifted it to her: 'this is an amethyst, Daphne.' He had told her the story of the amethyst, of how the goddess Diana had turned the beautiful woman Amethyst into a stone to protect it from the cruelties of men.

It had seemed fitting.

The hearth crackled lightly, the stew she was cooking bubbling in the pot suspended in the flames. It was a recipe that her mother had taught her when she was a child, made with simple herbs, vegetables, and a shank of lamb. It would be ready soon, along with the bread she'd cooked earlier that afternoon. Daphne glanced at the mosaics above the fire pit, a small smile upon her lips as she looked upon the red floral pattern. She remembered the day that Dion had helped her to design the elaborate mantle piece, when he had brought in a box full of beautiful colored tiles and told her to think of an idea.

They had decided on her favorite flower, the poppy flower. For hours they had labored together, placing one small tile at a time, until morning of the next day. They'd stared at it in the early rising sun before falling asleep in one anothers' arms, exhausted but content. "All for you, Daphne," he had murmured, lips pressed against her temple.

Once, Daphne had hated her name. It wasn't her true name, which was Leora, but her adopted one. Daphne was her slave name, the name given to her the day she had lost her freedom.

In time, though, Dion had helped her come to love it. To love herself. And for that, she had chosen to accept it as not only her new name, but a new part of her person and history. Not something to be ashamed of, but a simple fact. Just another part of her for Dion to love. So, she had let Leora go, and she had learned to accept Daphne. It had been two years to the day, now, since the day that Dion had taken her from the pleasure house, since he had passed a bag of gold into anothers' hand and purchased her fully, but she was grateful every day for his decision to do so.

It had not been an easy two years. It still wasn't, some days. But, looking around the little house lit with candles and flickering oil lamps, she knew that it was more than worth it. It was home. Their home. And Dion had helped make it that way.

Daphne pulled the stew pot from the fire pit, letting it cool on the open window sill by the table. The smell made her mouth water and her stomach growl, and she hoped that Dion wasn't drinking too much. He'd always asked her to make something from home, but she'd gotten so used to telling him 'no' that she'd forgotten why she'd stopped cooking her family's recipes in the first place.

The stew reminded her of home. So, why not cook it now? For Dion? He was home, now. She just hoped that she remembered the recipe correctly, or her mother would likely come back just to haunt her.

As the stew cooled, though, Daphne had one last task to complete before her beloved made his way back through the front door -- she needed to finish his gift. Tonight was the two-year anniversary of the day Dion had purchased her from the pleasure house and made her into his personal slave, promising her safety and passion and peace. Since then, her life had been nothing short of wonderful, and she wanted to show her thanks to the man in a way that would be lasting. It had taken many, many weeks for her to secretly gather the tools and supplies she'd needed, but in time she'd collected it all.

The ring was simple. It was silver, and she had carefully molded it into a wolf that ran in a never-ending circle seeking its own tail. It was Dion's personal crest, belonging to his family name and passed down from generation to generation. The eyes were dark amethysts, like that of the jewel he'd given her. She was in the last stages of polishing the gift, and she lifted it into her hands, gently rubbing the cloth in small circles across the design.

She hoped that this gift would be one that Dion would cherish for years. One that he could pass on to his sons, or daughters.

A hand absently rested against her belly, and on her pretty features bloomed a slight frown. It was the first frown that the night had seen, but not the first that had crossed her features at that wayward thought. Two years, and no child had grown in her belly. At first, she had hoped that it was poor luck, but after so many failures? She pulled her hand away from her womb, trying to push the ill thoughts aside.

Dion had never complained, but she had seen him stop in shops to look at the wooden swords that were given as gifts to little boys. A few months ago, Daphne had quietly slipped her favorite mouse oil lantern that she had received as a welcoming gift from a neighbor into storage, though only after another neighbor had commented on it in surprise, asking when she was expecting. Daphne had learned then that the lantern was meant to be turned into a toy for a child, and that each time she'd used it she had been teasing Dion with a possibility of the future.

He had asked where it had gone, and she'd lied to him, saying it had broken. He would never have left her place it in storage, knowing that she did so for his sake. Even more, a small, dark part of her worried that someday Dion might find another slave to bear him sons, since she seemed to be unable. Could she even fault him if he did?

He had given her so much, and what did she give him in return? A warm bed? Dinners?

Shelving those troubling worries, Daphne lifted the small ring into the light of one of the lamps. She turned it over, then smiled. It was done. She fetched a small bag that she had hastily knitted, sliding the ring in to hold it until she was ready to gift it to her beloved. Her only hope now was that Dion would like it. He had never been the type to wear jewelry, more likely to gift it to someone else, but the token was one she thought he might like regardless.

Dessert was the only thing left for her to make, but she sighed. She had no more time to dedicate to making the tart. Instead, she fetched some grapes from the storehouse, cool and damp from the jar it had been kept in, washing them and prepping them to be enjoyed after dinner. She hummed softly as she readied the food, but her heart raced anxiously as she waited for her beloved to return. Any time now, right?

The sound of the doorknob turning made Daphne's head turn, a small smile gracing her lips.

"Dion, my love," she said, warmly, as the man stepped into their house, "welcome home."

--

At last, Dion managed to convince his inebriated companions that enough was enough -- he was going home. No more objections.

He was running behind, after all.

It was only after the moon had risen halfway through the night sky that his companions finally let him leave the taverna, and even then they had called after him all manner of insults about being whipped and having no sense of self. Dion had merely laughed them off. His friends adored Daphne as much as he did, and he knew their jests were just that: jests.

He ached for her. Not lustfully, though he felt a tinge of that, too, but spiritually. Something about being apart from the slim, dark-haired woman made his heart ache, and his thoughts became consumed by her. This was the longest he'd willfully been away from her all week, as he normally found a way to shrug off his friends' complaints to be home before the moon even touched the horizon. Daphne would understand his lateness, though. She always did.

Besides, he bore good tidings -- the best, even. She would forgive him for dallying.

Had it already been two years since the beautiful slave had come completely into his life? Since she had accepted his offer and left her old life behind, to venture into a world of uncertainty with a then-relatively-poor trader? The weeks had gone by quickly, a blurring of memories each more precious than the last, and still she stayed with him.

She loved him, she promised.

The seaside village was quiet as he made his way home, the pathway lit with small lanterns and candles clinging to the sides of dark homes. He walked with a slight limp, the chilly evening air aggravating what had healed years before. He had seen only twenty-nine years, but his body felt as if it had been a dozen more.

Glancing ahead, Dion saw the warm glow of the kitchen lit in their cottage. He even thought he saw Daphne's dark shadow moving in front of the curtain, and he smiled. What had she cooked for dinner tonight? She had burned the first ever meal she'd made him, the first night they had lived together as master and slave, but she hadn't let that stop her from trying again and again until she'd perfected that meal. But she never made him anything from home, claiming she didn't recall the recipes.

Daphne never gave up -- it was one thing he'd admired about her, even as a slave. She had never pitied herself in her predicament, even when she had every right to rage at the unfairness of the gods. Her endless optimism inspired even him on some days, especially when his old war wound acted up and it was difficult to move.

The man paused outside the door, hearing something coming through the wood. He smiled, hearing Daphne's voice. She was singing, as she was wont to do while she worked on some task or another. It was late, though, and she should have been resting. Turning the door handle, he entered their home.

"Dion, my love," Daphne said, looking up from where she was setting a place for their dinner, "welcome home."

She was stunning, his Daphne. Always smiling. Long, dark hair that, when she let it down, reached nearly to her rear. Tonight she had those lush locks up, neatly and elegantly pulled away from her face so that he could see delicate features. Around her neck was the necklace he had gifted her -- a collar, but in name only. It was an unfortunate requirement by the village magistrate, and one that Daphne had understood gracefully.

No matter how he felt about her, Daphne was still a slave.

She was on the shorter side, a head shorter than himself, but she was soft and gentle. She was the perfect compliment to himself, in Dion's opinion, who had hardened in his stint in the army and was often sharp-tongued; not a good trait for a trader. As he went to her, his arms wrapping around her slim waist, she folded into him as if she had been designed to fit into his embrace. He pressed his lips to his hair, murmuring, "Thank you, Daphne. It is good to be home."

They lingered for a moment, then Daphne pulled out of his embrace, tittering, "You're late, you know." A glance at her grin and crinkled eyes revealed that she was teasing, but Dion still felt a stab of guilt. It was an important night -- did she remember that it was?

"I know," he said, chagrined, "I couldn't escape the taverna tonight. They wouldn't leave me be whenever I tried to make my escape. I promise to admonish them soundly in the morning for disrespecting your time."

She tsked, but it was with the same lightness, and he knew that he was forgiven. She looked up at him with soft green eyes, smiling, then gestured to the table. "I made youvetsi for you tonight, my love," she said. "Be kind, I haven't made it in many years."

Dion glanced to the table, taking in the lovingly-prepared meal, but as his wife pulled away from him, his eyes lingered on the dress she wore, instead. He nearly groaned aloud as he realized what it was that she'd decided to don for the evening -- his weakness. He rued the day that he had ordered that dress made for her, as it clung to her in ways that would tempt a priest to sin. The soft, seafoam silk hugged her breasts and hips, and he could see the slight outline of her nipples through the sheer material. He reached for her, his hands snaring her waist as he pulled her closer.

Burying his face in her neck, he murmured against her soft skin, "What if I hunger for something else, first?" He had not been hard when he'd walked through the door, but he ached now. His need for her had swollen as he'd taken in her stunning beauty, lush and on display for him and him alone. It was a miracle he had the restraint to not throw her dinner to the floor and devour her on the table, instead.

Daphne laughed, the sound soft, like tinkling bells. She leaned her head back, granting Dion access to the curve of her throat, and he eagerly feasted upon her, trailing kisses down her exposed skin.

"Dion!" she gasped, and his cock jerked in response to the tone he heard there: need.

He chuckled, softly. "What's wrong, my dear? Should I stop?" While Dion offered, he didn't know if he could follow through if his partner actually agreed. He'd been thinking about Daphne all night long, craving this moment where he could come home to her arms. To find her dressed up for him was too much, because now he knew she'd been thinking of him, too.

"No," she said, shaking her head, and he looked down into her emerald eyes to see that they smoldered with a similar heat as he felt.

Surprising him, his lover pressed her delicate hands to his chest and pushed him back. He followed her guidance, stumbling backward, brow furrowing. "Daphne?" The dark-haired woman stared at him, a coy smile upon her painted lips, and he wondered what game she played at. Why had she stayed up so late for him? Cooked a traditional meal that she'd sworn she didn't know?

Daphne's fingers were soft but sure as they found his waistband, tugging his shirt out from where he'd tucked them into his trousers. "I have a gift for you, my love," she teased, "I was going to wait until after dinner, but since you seem to have no appetite for lamb, I suppose I will have to improvise."

A gift? Dion's need throbbed. "Why a gift?" he asked, though he knew. It seemed as if his companion had remembered the day better than he'd expected. He decided to play dumb, teasing her back. "Surely you're not rewarding how late I stayed out at the taverna?"

She laughed, and he groaned softly, loving the sound of joy from his partner. To think that when he had first met her, he had wiped tears from her cheeks as he'd left her, promising he would return in time. Now he vowed to never let those tears fall again. He was the luckiest man alive, to no longer have to go all the way to the pleasure house to see his companion, but home.

"No, beloved, only a celebration of our time spent together."

Dion smiled -- she had remembered, then. And he had thought himself the only one who was so sentimental. Last year, on their first year together, he had surprised her with a small dinner. She had not known the special day then, but she'd been delighted when he'd revealed the importance of their date. It seemed as if she'd decided to not let him have the upper hand again, and somehow she had found a way to count the days.

"Oh?" he said, but his eyes widened as the woman stepped toward him, kissing his jaw briefly, tenderly, before she knelt in front of him. His cock jerked, recognizing the look in her eyes as she smiled up at him. He had seen it many times before, his minx. "Daphne? What about your gift?" His voice was tight, and a groan slipped from him as his partner's only response was to grab his trousers and begin to pull them downward. The waistband caught on his hard length, and Daphne tugged again, causing his cock to spring free. Dion was already hard. How could he not be, when a stunning woman knelt before him?

Her hand wrapped around his girth, the woman's long, slender fingers gripping the root of his engorged need and guiding it-- her lips brushed against his head, tongue flicking to lap up a single bead of precum that had slipped free. "That comes soon enough," Daphne murmured, letting her words brush over him. Her breath was hot, a subtle warning before her lips wrapped around his head, tongue swirling around the crown of his rigid cock.