Grinding my pelvis against the nub that I know sends pleasure throughout her body, I continue to thrust my tongue in and out of her mouth, in tandem with my cock. She rips her mouth from mine, her cries fill the room as her cunt clamps down hard around my length.
Her arms pull me closer, my hips moving hard and fast against her as I search for my own release. When I come, I bury my face in her neck, crying out with a roar as my cum fills her body.
I haven’t been able to stomach pulling from her and spilling myself on her body, it must be the curse of the gods.
A dratted curse it is, too.
Lifting my head, my breathing coming out in heavy pants, I look down into her satisfied blue eyes. “I’ll call Martha,” I rasp.
“Breakfast,” she whispers.
I hum, sliding my lips across hers. “Breakfast,” I repeat with a smile.
This all feels so real at moments, that sometimes I forget none of this actually is real. The gods have sanctioned this. It has nothing to do with her or me, with the way that we feel, because what we feel is all fabricated by the gods themselves.
Sliding from her body, I try to fight the feeling at the loss of her warm cunt. Grabbing my trousers from the floor, I pull them up my legs as I make my way toward the door.
“Colt,” Birdie calls out.
Stopping, my hand on the doorknob, I turn to look back at her from over my shoulder. “Birdie?” I ask when she doesn’t continue.
She’s sitting up, her black hair a tousled mess, the sheet she’s holding up with one hand barely covers her small breasts. She’s a vision if ever I’ve seen one and I’m not sure that I have seen one that has ever been the likes of her.
I shake my head, reminding myself that it is all because of the gods. None of this is real, especially the way that I feel toward her.
“Thank you,” she rasps.
Dipping my chin, I turn away from her and head out of the bedroom and down to the kitchen to Martha. I can’t stay in there with her, I can’t fall deeper into her. I must remember that this is all in my mind, falsely created.
I must continue to remind myself, over and over, until I no longer forget.
BIRDIE
In a perfect world, we would have eaten breakfast in bed together, then maybe made love one more time, because it really is just that good. But this, just like my own, is not a perfect world. Instead, Colt never reappears. He leaves my room and the next person who enters is Martha.
Martha has strict instructions to feed me and ready me for a trip into town. Apparently, going into town is some huge trip. I don’t ask her many questions, and I almost faint when she brings in a brand-new yellow dress for me.
“What’s this?” I demand.
She smiles as she lays it down on the bed. “Abraham, the dressmaker, had it dropped by in the wee hours of the morning. I was already up, making some bread. He wanted to ensure that you had something new to wear, something that was made specifically for you.”
“It’s gorgeous,” I breathe as I reach out and finger the soft fabric.
It is an extremely soft cotton and I almost let out a sigh of relief, knowing how much cooler it will no doubt feel against my skin rather than the wool that I have been wearing, add to that the light weight and color of the fabric, I know that it will all aid in helping me feel less like a giant sweat ball.
“I’ll put your hair up, leaving just a small ponytail down the side,” she says as if she’s talking to herself.
I can’t even explain how excited I am that she knows the word ponytail. I know that we’re from different worlds, but as many things feel foreign, just as many feel warm and comforting as well.
It doesn’t take Martha long to whip up my hair in a gorgeous fashion. I wish that I had one of her back at home because I would look fierce, always. She helps me into my ridiculous undergarments and ties up my corset, to a no doubt unhealthy level before she spins me around.
“Oh, what I would give to have ever had a shape like yours, Birdie.”
Shrugging, I lift my gaze to meet hers. “Trust me, men like curves. They act like they want a supermodel, but they don’t.”
I speak from experience, not that I’m a supermodel, but I’m naturally too thin. Men look, but they either don’t ask me out or when I do date them, they cheat on me with women that I wish I could look like. Beautiful women with curves in all the right places.
“Then you’ve been courting the wrong men, because you are stunning, Miss Birdie.”
She doesn’t allow me to say anything in response. She wraps her hands around my waist and spins me around. She demands my arms go up and starts to dress me in the stunning soft yellow dress.
It doesn’t take her long to get it all in place and I dip my chin, frowning at how much of my chest is exposed. Spinning around, I open my mouth to ask Martha why this dress seems so much more revealing than the other ones that I’ve worn, but she doesn’t give me the chance. Without a word, she walks past me and out the door.
Turning around, I try not to stare after her in surprise, so instead I look at myself in the mirror, frowning. Where the collars came up to my throat on the other two dresses, this one barely covers my undergarment
