She woke with her body humming in sweet reminiscence. Without opening her eyes, she arched her back and stretched her arms with feline grace. As she settled back onto her pallet, she pillowed her covers around her nude form, and luxuriated in the silence that surrounded her; remembering.
The son of slaves, a person hardly considered by society as human, Dion was a creature of utter perfection. He was sleek of body, with golden skin, dark hair, and black eyes that pierced as well as enveloped with their profound depth. Eyes that followed the every movement his mistress made with complete devotion and silent love.
How could she not notice such divine masculine beauty? How could she not respond to his eager faithfulness, his willingness to please? Oh, yes, she was married; married, in fact, to a member of the Senate. And, yes, Athenian law as well as her own, personal religious beliefs strictly forbade laying with a man not her husband. But how could she refuse the love he offered? How could she ignore Dionysus's madness running hot through her veins?
So, she took him into her marriage bed; the fine linens and embroidered draperies a sumptuous backdrop complementing the mating of their bodies. A mating of their hearts.
It was there that she allowed Dion to touch her with more than his watching, worshipful eyes. With a reverent caresses, his work roughened hands made her body tremble. With his hot, moist mouth, he adored every inch of her skin, until she was liquid silk. His breath, warming; his body, igniting. With Dion, she turned into a goddess of unquenchable cravings; ravenous for nothing less than everything.
He taught her the secrets of her femininity, nudging her infant bud into full bloom with patience and skill. When she blushed at his ardent ministrations, he delved deeper; his tongue creating pure ecstasy in the heart of her womanhood with long, loving laps. His fingers worked magic from within, relentlessly caressing until she was begging to be filled completely. Then, with a scrape of teeth and a swirling tongue, she died from the pleasure that burst into iridescent completion.
But he brought her back to life, her Dion, with drugging kisses of languid passion. He clasped each of her hands in his own, so that each tiny fist was completely enfolded within. The long, hard body she had admired from afar was stretched and pressed flush against her soft womanly curves. She could feel the steel of his arousal on her leg; his length from knee to her upper thigh caused a stir of longing as well as a touch of fear. He was so much man. Almost too much.
His dark, musky scent was overpowering and shattered her sanity until she was nothing but a confused mix of sensations. The soft crinkle of hair that swirled into circles along his body warred with the softness of her skin. The hardness of his muscles barely confined within his hot, velvet skin a seductive contradiction. Captured there beneath him, she felt so small and fragile; womanly. Every touch spoke epic poems from the heart, every kiss a dance of love. How she had lived this long without such sensations, without his touch, she could not believe. How she would now live without him, she did not know. She was spiraling into a whirlpool of obsession for this, possession for him.
And then he slid a knee between her legs, and spread them gently open. She opened willingly, embraced Dion's body with open arms and an open heart, and when he slowly pushed himself inside, his thickness stretching and filling, she cried tears of joy. He fit perfectly; their bodies the key and lock to the other's pleasure.
