Sunkissed 6

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Born of a dark-skinned immigrant mother in a wealthy caste who shun that complexion, a conflicted girl resolves to cast off her shame and confront the boy she's always loved.

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Author's note: If you have questions about this story or would like to point out a possible correction to be made, use Literotica's feedback-by-email with your own email address included, and I'll get back to you when I can.

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When her bedroom door swung shut, Sophia turned in her stool to face the mirror of her vanity desk. She grabbed her hairbrush and ran it through her long, dark-brown locks in smooth but forceful strokes, again, again, and again. It was worth the tedium. She wanted to be at her best. When she'd gotten her hair like silk, Sophia returned the brush to the shelf, beside the burning beeswax candle. She dipped her fingers into the rose water in its ornate silver bowl and dabbed it onto her flesh, in the pits of her arms, the crevices beneath her breasts, and the upper crack of her bum. She flinched when her finger glanced against her nethers. The waxing had left herself still painfully sensitive to her touch, but, thankfully, that feeling was fading. It would be gone before long. Or so Sophia hoped, at least. She had never done it before.

When Sophia finished with the rose water, she gazed into the mirror and drew a deep breath, taking in the sight of herself. She brought a hand to the side of her face, a pretty face, even she could admit, with clear, gray-green eyes, a shapely, sloped nose, full lips, and a chin with a soft, feminine curve. Or, rather, she thought it was a face that

would

be pretty. Sophia frowned as her eyes lingered on her cheek, on the color of her skin: tan. Not pale, not fair, no, not even close. Being of mixed race, born of an islander mother, the color was her natural complexion. She could not cast it off. She could go a year where every hour spent outdoors was under a parasol and she would still be no paler.

When she was little, Sophia's father had told her that her complexion was from the sun kissing her soul before she was born. He had said it was on God's behalf. Sophia had a hard time believing God could order something so cruel. To her, it seemed more of an act of the Devil. She was born in wealth, but her color had her treated like a leper.

'Tanskin.' 'Darkie.' 'Wildling.'

Those were the insults other girls so oft threw Sophia's way. She'd like to be able to say those words never hurt her, but sometimes, when she least expected it, they did.

Sophia's frown worsened as her hand traveled her neck downwards. Her body was of thin frame and short stature, no taller than five-foot-three. Her breasts were perky but smallish, and adorned with dark nipples. Her waist and hips had a noticeable curve, but they led to little, as her arse was no more impressive than her breasts. Sophia was a woman of eighteen years, but she didn't think she looked it. Her body wasn't womanly. It was girlish.

'Petite.'

Sophia hated that word, but there was no better way to describe her. And even Sophia's voice was not how she would've liked it. Too deep. Nothing like a man's, no, but not as feminine as she wanted, either. She used to catch herself speaking in a higher pitch than was natural. Stupid.

But this was not a day for those dour thoughts. This was a day for love. Sophia had set a plan into motion, and God willing, it would spark the beginning of the rest of her life. And what a wonderful life it would be.

But first, there was still more to be done. Sophia let out a quick, calming sigh, cleared her thoughts, and reached for the mascara brush.

- - -

Five hours earlier,

Musicians strummed away on their lutes and sang pleasant songs as they serenaded the crowd of marketgoers, hoping a few coins will be tossed their way. Sophia enjoyed their music, and normally she would tip them, but today her coin purse was empty. She did not come to the market to shop.

It was a warm day, and Sophia garbed herself in a simple, airy dress of a sleeveless, buttoned bodice and a long, ruffled skirt. It was a frugal dress devoid of any dyes, and its colors were that of its woolen cloths: off-white and beige. On most days, Sophia would be one of several different tan-skinned girls and women in the upper city's affluent market -- most being servants, but a few being like Sophia, born of islander mothers -- but this was not such a day. Today Sophia was the lone, lightly-brown blemish in an otherwise pale tapestry of fair-colored flesh. The sun shined bright in the blue, cloudless sky above her, and as such, all other women in the markets held parasols above their heads. The mothers shielded themselves as well as their daughters. The wealthiest of them had servants handle the duty. There was once a time when Sophia would do the same as them, if for no other reason than to blend in and be as every other girl was, but she had since grown out of that. It was a waste of time. It did nothing more for her than make her arm tired.

She'd left her home knowing what it was she wanted, but it wasn't something in a tradesman's stall, and thankfully, her search was short-lived. She found him watching the markets with his hands idly clasped at his waist, holding the wrist of one hand with the other. Joseph Beckham. A young man of nineteen years, now nearing twenty. Joseph's visage was a handsome one, with a strong nose and stronger jaw, and with eyes bright and blue. His face was clean-shaven and smooth, and his wavy, disheveled hair of thick, chestnut-brown curls reached past the nape of his neck. He was a tall man, far taller than Sophia. His skin was fair, but hours of standing in the bright sun had his flesh more peach than pale. Unlike with women, there was no stigma to a man of the mainland having flesh colored by the sun, and Sophia had a feeling Joseph wouldn't care if there was.

Joseph wasn't wellborn as Sophia was, and he did not know the wealth she knew, but his family was respected by all -- lowborn, wellborn, and highborn alike -- for its long line of men who chose to serve the city. Like his father, his three elder brothers, and most every other Beckham man before him, Joseph had chosen the profession of a city guardsman. Being on watch, he wore the armor of every guardsman serving: a manila-colored gambeson, a sort of woolen, thickly-padded jacket with long sleeves and a split-skirt, with five horizontal buckle straps to keep it snug, and a swordbelt fastened tight around its waist. On that belt, a leather-wrapped blackjack was fastened to Joseph's right hip, as was a longsword sheathed in its brown leather scabbard on his left. Sophia wished Joseph could wear a suit of plate over his gambeson for more protection, as knights do, but there were too many guardsmen and too little good steel for that. Whenever she would express her fear for his safety to him, Joseph would always remind her that a Beckham hadn't died serving the city for more than a hundred years. Sophia did not doubt it was the same line all Beckham men said to the women who loved them. Sophia smirked at the thought of it; if a Beckham man did actually happen to die in service, the others would be left in dire straits indeed.

Sophia did not go to Joseph as soon as she spotted him. For a short while she simply stood there, admiring the sight of him as other marketgoers passed her by.

Sophia had known Joseph for six years, and they'd been sweethearts for nearly as long. He was the first boy she ever kissed. First and only. Sophia wondered daily what being more intimate with him would be like, but fear always stopped her from ever discovering that. She had never even kissed him with tongue. Sophia hated the thought that, at an age where some other girls had been wedded for two or three years, she had never even deep-kissed the boy she'd been in love with for a third of her life. Her fear had stifled their love ... but it wouldn't anymore. That was coming to an end. Sophia had spent the morning mapping out a plan in her mind, and she intended to follow it through. She wouldn't let shame cripple her life any longer.

"Joseph!" Sophia finally called out as she bounded over to him.

Joseph turned her way when he heard her. "Hey, love," he said, and a smile spread across his lips as Sophia came to stand before him. His head towered over Sophia's. He stood nearly a full foot taller than her.

Sophia rose to her tiptoes and cupped his cheek in her hand as she pecked a loving kiss to his lips. "You're well, I hope?" she asked when she stood flatfoot again, gazing into the blue of his eyes.

Joseph's smile widened. "Better now," he said.

Joseph's voice was smooth and deep, and he spoke with the northern commoner's accent, unlike Sophia's posh, courtly one. Though Sophia spoke 'love' and 'above' with uh's, as in

'luhve'

and

'abuhve,'

Joseph spoke them more with oh's, closer to

'lohve'

and

'abohve.'

There were a few other differences as well, but that was the most noticeable. Some wellborn and highborn girls despised the commoner accent -- even going as far as to order their maids to speak without it -- but Sophia did not. She liked the sound of it. Or maybe she simply liked the sound of Joseph himself. He had the power to always brighten her day, without fail, no matter how sour her mood or how dour her mind, and judging by how Joseph glowed when she kissed him, Sophia was glad to know that the reverse seemed to be true as well.

"When does your watch end?" Sophia asked, still cupping Joseph's cheek.

"After dusk," Joseph answered as his smile faded into a frown. "Another nine-to-nine," he said somberly.

Perfect.

"Damn," Sophia quietly cursed, feigning disappointment as she frowned with Joseph. It was the first time she'd ever been dishonest with him. But if things went as Sophia planned, tonight would be a night of many firsts.

"I'll come for you tomorrow, after breakfast," Joseph said. "We'll do something then."

"Tomorrow," Sophia agreed, nodding.

No, not tomorrow. Tonight.

"Hey!"

a gruff voice shouted. Sophia and Joseph turned as an older guardsman with an unwieldly, black beard and bald head stormed towards them. "D'you think being a Beckham will stop me from clubbing you, boy?" he growled at Joseph, glaring at him.

Joseph squared his shoulders and shook his head. "No, sir," he said.

"Then follow the damn code," the guardsman spat at him.

"'My eyes are for all.'"

"I was just leaving, sir," Sophia said.

The guardsman whipped his head towards her. "Then begone," he growled.

Though she greatly wished to kiss Joseph goodbye, Sophia knew it would only anger the older guardsman further, and it wasn't worth Joseph's suffering, and so she wordlessly turned away and left them.

Learning the time of Joseph's watch's end was only the first step of Sophia's plan. The next was to find her closest friend, Madelyn Coulston, a girl two months Sophia's senior whom she'd known for most all her life. Her best friend. The only girl Sophia knew who had never once mocked her for the color of her skin or for being born of an islander mother. Her father was a longtime friend of Sophia's, and she and Sophia were like sisters when they were little, sharing a nanny, and even oft being bathed together. Though they stayed close, Madelyn had walked a slightly different path than Sophia as they'd grown. She'd become wise of things Sophia was not. Things of the flesh. She was promiscuous. Some girls thought less of Madelyn for that, but Sophia didn't. In fact, Sophia envied her. Intimacy came so easily for her. And tonight, Sophia would put Madelyn's knowledge to use.

Thankfully, Sophia knew just where she'd likely find her. The jeweler's stand. Sophia and Madelyn's fathers were both men of wealth, but Sophia's had taught her prudence with coin and to be wary of losing herself to materialism. Madelyn's did not do the same. Sophia owned somewhere near twenty pendants and brooches. Madelyn owned hundreds.

It was a short walk through to the market to the jeweler's stand, and sure enough, there Madelyn stood, admiring the large sapphire embedded in a pendant. She had a talent of being the most extravagantly dressed in any one place no matter the women around her, and today was no different, as she wore a lavish gown of silver and blue, the same colors of the parasol she clutched over her head. Her hair cascaded far down her shoulders, long, flaxen-blonde locks of effortless health, always shining. Her flesh was a pale white, nearly porcelain. Her nose was slender, her cheekbones were tall, and her lips were plump and supple. And she was a beauty of both face and body. Her hourglass frame was curvy and womanly, and she'd grown into it years ago. And of course, her voice was perfect too, like the prettiest of songbirds. Light and airy, with a hint of a gentle rasp. Madelyn was a fair maiden in every sense. Well, all except for one. If she wasn't her best friend, Sophia would feel far more ashamed of how jealous she was of her.

Sophia walked to Madelyn and put a hand on her shoulder. "Hey, Maddie," Sophia said.

Madelyn turned her head Sophia's way with curious eyes. "Hey, Soph," she greeted her, smiling. She held the sapphire pendant closer to Sophia. "D'you see this? Incredible, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's lovely," Sophia said hurriedly as she spared her a quick nod. "Could I speak to you in private for a moment?"

"Very well," Madelyn said as she set the pendant back on its stall shelf.

Sophia took Madelyn's hand and ushered her towards a quieter space in the middle of the street, beside the wide bowl of an unlit brazier, where only their own ears could hear their words. "You're visiting a cousin in the Capital for a few nights, aren't you?" Sophia asked.

Madelyn nodded. "Yes. Why?"

"I need a favor."

"What is it?"

Sophia paused and began wringing her hands. "Would you ... would you lie to my father for me?"

Madelyn thought it over for a moment. "For a good cause," she said.

Sophia's heart felt as though it sank to her bowels. That wasn't the answer she was hoping to hear. How quick her supposedly well-laid plans could fall apart. "And what would be a good cause to you?" she asked.

Madelyn grinned. "A boy."

Sophia sighed as she swelled with relief, her heart rising anew. "Then I'm in luck," she said.

Madelyn bounced on her feet, shaking her fist with glee. "Oh, joyous day! My little darling Sophia is finally plucking her flower!"

Sophia narrowed her eyes and smiled.

"'Little darling?'

You're two months older than me," she noted.

"And yet so much more traveled," Madelyn said. "You're going to tell me

all about

what happens, you understand?"

"I will do no such thing," Sophia said, laughing and shaking her head. "You're with me, then? If my father asks, you'll tell him I'm leaving the city with you?"

"I will."

Sophia breathed another sigh of relief. "Thank you," she said, and she took Madelyn's free hand and gently squeezed it. "This means a lot to me, Maddie. I won't forget this."

Madelyn's grin softened into a gentle, sunny smile. "It's my pleasure."

"Also," Sophia quickly began, "D'you recall that ...

thing

... you said you'd do for me?"

"No," Madelyn said, shaking her head.

Sophia timidly bit her lip. "The ... the thing you said boys like."

Madelyn's face lit up with another mischievous grin as she laughed.

"Oh,

yes," she said with a nod.

"I want to do it."

Madelyn nodded again. "I'll get the wax."

- - -

Madelyn tore away another strip of hair from between Sophia's legs, and Sophia jammed her eyes shut and clapped her hand over her mouth to silence her own screams.

"Calm yourself, for God's sake," Madelyn grumbled as she flicked the strip of hair into a pot and dipped a fresh strip into a bowl of wax. "It doesn't hurt that bad," she said. "Big baby. You've a lot to get rid of ... like a sodding forest."

- - -

That evening, after dinner, Sophia went to her father in the study. She opened the door just wide enough to slip through before shutting it behind her. The room was lined with shelves of books, rivalling that of the library of the Lord's own keep. A spacious desk with a quill and inkwell stood in the corner of the room, and flames silently flickered in the fireplace behind a pane of glass. Facing the fire, Sophia's father sat in his velvet-cushioned lounge chair, holding a leather-bound booklet in his hands, reading in the light of three beeswax candles sitting on an end table at his side. He had just come from the bath. He was garbed in his bathrobe, and his short hair -- brown with gray roots -- was still noticeably wet. His face was long and angular, with a square, stub chin. His beard and mustache were trimmed short and kept tidy. Wrinkles of middle-age sat around his soft, brown eyes, but he showed few other signs of his fifty years living. Spending his days indoors left his flesh a pale white. He was a handsome man, and with his wealth, he could've taken nearly any woman he desired as a wife after he was widowed, but he never did. If that left him lonely, it did not show. His soul was a bright one. Sophia wished hers could be like it. But there was yet hope for that.

Her father hadn't told Sophia he'd be spending the evening in the study, but she knew he'd be there. He oft joked that, below Sophia and her late mother, literature was his third great love, and that certainly showed. He would spend the waning hours of most evenings reading, whether it be some tome of a mythical epic or any other fiction he could get his hands on. He and his love for reading were well-known, and, at his request, playwrights would oft send him manuscripts of their works two or three weeks before the words were breathed by a thespian. Sophia declined to have that privilege shared with her. She preferred the theater.

Even in an activity as simple as reading, Sophia's father had an air of decorum and properness to him. It was an air he always had, but that was to be expected, considering who and what he was. To everyone else in the city, he was Charles Thomas, wellborn aristocrat, Chancellor of the Court, and Steward to the Lord, but to Sophia, he was simply:

"Papa?"

Papa took his spectacles from the bridge of his nose and lowered his book. A smile came to him when his eyes found hers. "Yes, darling?"

"Madelyn and I are leaving the city for the weekend. She's visiting a cousin in the Capital, and I'm going with her."

On a different occasion, Sophia would've felt shame for lying through her teeth to her father, but if there was ever a time for dishonesty, this was it.

"You haven't wanted to leave the city in years," Papa noted.

"Well ... things change."

Papa nodded, still smiling. "That they do." He watched her silently for a moment -- a short moment, admittedly, but to Sophia it seemed far too long -- before he again nodded. "Very well," he said.

Sophia paused at that. "That's ... that's it?" she asked.

Papa gave an idle shrug. "Why wouldn't it be?"

Sophia tilted her head warily. "You ... you can ask Madelyn about it yourself, if you'd like. She'll tell you."

"No, that's alright," Papa said. "I trust you."

"But ... you don't believe me."

"Sophia," Papa began, and he cleared his throat as he stood to his feet and set his book and spectacles on the near table. "I don't care where you're going. You're eighteen years old. You're a grown woman." He strode to her and rested a hand on her shoulder. He was not a man of tall stature, and he stood only three or four inches taller than Sophia; when he was with the Lord in the keep, the knights towered over him. "And I trust your judgement," he added, still shining his fatherly smile at her. "You've always been a wise girl."