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 Posted: Fri Oct 15, 2010 2:03 am
Hehehe This is the first time I've posted any stories here.
Should I just keep an entire thread for All my stories? Or would that be dumb? o.O'
Eh, whatever. I'll just start with Post 1-Background on Story 1, Post 2- Story 1!
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Posted: Fri Oct 15, 2010 2:08 am
  What you Need to Know:-This whole story is set in a very Ancient time. Think like 600 B.C. -In this world, the Wind in each region in every compass direction is painted by a different Color. The colors go ROYGBIV clockwise around the country, starting with Red in the Eastern Desert. -Every color is attributed to a different tribe/race living in that area. Nobody is really sure why... -The City, Myram, is on the edge of the Eastern Desert, On the eastern side of, and not very far from, the Great River (nameless)[much like the Nile in Egypt, but with a bit more greenery]. -Myram is sort of like the "Soddom and Gomorra" of the world at this time. Most of the other tribes/races refer to them as 'Pagans'. -The people in this area look like the pictures you see to your Left and right (low-quality pics Inorite!?) -This will probably be an installment to a larger chapter, hence part of a larger story which I may or may not explain at a later time, but you should be able to read through it all and not be confused. I wrote it to be mostly independent for now...but if you Do get confused about anything, Don't hesitate t ask! biggrin - Warning! Mild Adult Content!-When I think of more relevant information, I'll be sure to add it here
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Posted: Fri Oct 15, 2010 2:10 am
Medeus Night was falling in the desert. The rushing sound of the great river settled into the caressing sighs of the night. A warm breeze picked up, and carried the scent of the evening through the city. Half a moon began its journey through the sky, hanging now, a sentinel, over the sandstone buildings of Myram.
She stood in the window of the palace, draping one of her poorer scarves, a brilliant red, around her head and shoulders, staring blindly at the moon. The torches lit in the city smudged most of the stars, but the great silver disc wasn’t so easily discouraged. She reached past her neck under the scarf, and pulled out a handful of hair to rest across her breast, in preparation for the night’s ritual. With one last glance at the moon through the window, she carefully wiped a tear from her eye and started for the hallway.
With practiced allure, she came to the fountain at the center of the city. The fountain lay in the middle of the plaza in front of the city Temple. By day, this was the stone circle where men came to have their sacrifices accepted by the priests, and dressed with scented oils and decorated linens. At night, a remarkably similar practice took place, though the Priests were rarely involved.
Hips swaying, she crossed to the edge of the water and sat herself down, to all appearances unaware of the other similarly dressed women around the huge pool. Each of them left a lock of hair trailing down over their shoulders from underneath a thin hood of linen, most likely tattered and fringed with holes, or patched with discolored scraps. Hands brushing her own lock of dark hair, she gazed at the Stone Goddess who stood in the middle of the water. Naked, she held up a great basin of water, where water poured across her body and into the pool at her feet. Daughter of the Sun, she represented the most loved goddess of the people in the desert. She was the inspiration behind beauty, power, life, and most importantly, love. Bathed in the rays of the moon, the white marble goddess looked down on her daughters, both proud and contemptuous for the women who offered themselves to her incomparable beauty. These were the sacrifices that pleased the goddess. These were the people whom the Daughter of the Sun cherished.
It was only a short time before the first man wandered through the plaza. She watched him stroll by, never lifting a finger from her hair. As usual, she would let the other women have the first few bites before working her own beguiling magic. The night rolled by, and several more men found their way to the center of the city. A few of the men were clearly uncomfortable youths, but most of them were weathered regulars. None of these interested her until an unfamiliar face made its way into her field of vision. Dark curly hair, with unusually bright blue eyes, he appeared to be considerably young. His own promenade down the street told otherwise, and the pointed look in his eye said that he knew exactly what he came for. She stood up and sauntered across the yard to where the blue-eyed man meandered, “admiring the statue”. Along the way, she pointed a sharp, discouraging glance to a young girl who’d been about to make the same move. He’s Mine, she said wordlessly.
She walked right past him, tail swaying, and neck tilted to see whether his eye followed. She saw his tail twitch, and his feet shuffle slightly against the warm stone floor. Appeased, she turned right around and lay her hands on his shoulders, gently running her fingers down his muscular back, around and up to his sinewy arms and shoulders. He froze in place, muscles tensing at first, but quickly relaxing into her soft caress. After his third deep breath, she reached up to his chin, and twisted him around to face her, drawing herself close to meet his belly and pelvis with her own. Cheeks cupped between her hands, she stared into his pretty eyes, enchanting and charming him into submission. He responded with a devilish half-grin. With a mischievous smile of her own, she took him by the hand and led him to a building behind the temple, one of many set aside for just such occasions as this. It had a few small rooms that were scattered with scented pillows, perfumed blankets and draped veil-curtains strung about, all dimly lit by one or two small torches in the corners.
She led him to her favorite room at the end of the hall where the curtains and linen blankets were all patterned in rosy shades of violet and light orange. With lithe and grace, she let down her thin hood, and guided him to his knees while she went further down, leaning back into the pillows. From then on, it was his game, and it was apparent that he knew how to play. He didn’t waste a moment finding her neck with his lips, and stroking her side with his hands. It wasn’t too long before he found the clasp behind her back to release her from her clothing, and his hands found more skin to explore.
In the semi-dark she lay there, mostly pretending. His satisfied grunts and kisses were met with forged gasps of fruition, for there was rarely any meaningful pleasure to be obtained from the ritual, but she was a master of her craft, and the Goddess would be appeased. Even when his hand slid below her belly, she didn’t protest. When his own clothes were lost in the shuffle, and he was finding his way to ultimate gratification, she gave a sharp intake of air, covering the short pain with closed eyes and outward, pleasure-filled huffs. She felt the muscles in his jaw clench tightly against her cheek, and his hand squeezed intensely. Both were sticky with sweat, the breeze outside lost against the sandstone walls. There were no witnesses in the dark; only the curtains and the torches on the wall.
The deed was done shortly, and after several minutes of heavy breathing into the pillows beside her, he got up, dropped the coins by the door, and wordlessly left her in the silence. She didn’t move for some time. Paralyzed, she felt a tear slide down the side of her face. It wasn’t the first she’d ever felt on her cheek, and the Gods knew it wouldn’t be the last.
It was familiarity that strapped her down. The whole situation was entirely too recognizably, in the worst of ways, for the Princess of Myram. Every touch, every stroke, ever hair on his head, even the color of his eyes was familiar to her, and she hated herself for it. She lost her poise for long enough to break down, and weep in the torchlight. The ritual wasn’t enough. It didn’t give her enough power, not truly. For every breath she took, there was a stab of horrific guilt to her weary heart and for every tear she shed, there was a basin of disgusted grief being poured across her fragile interior. They called her the Harlot-Queen of the Desert. By day, she glorified in her dignified royalty, but on the rising of the moon the entire meaning of her title was laid bare before the goddess.
Familiarity….that man: no that stranger was so familiar. That stranger was a youthful, vigorous, admittedly gentler, but no less feral echo of her Father. As so many nights before, only the curtains shared her shame in the darkness.
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Posted: Fri Oct 15, 2010 2:51 am
Very interesting. O: reminds me of an author who writes a book that I really like. The way you write is somewhat similar because he uses the reality of things too. No obvious happy endings and always keeping things fresh.
however, I do not like a bit of the beginning where it says 'caressing non-silences of the night'. Non-silences needs to be replaced with a better word. Maybe murmer or even rustle. The rest of it is quite well done though.
that is what stuck out to me the most, and I might see something later, but for now, all's well.
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Posted: Fri Oct 15, 2010 3:01 am
rofl I can change that.....It was 4am.....6_6
Thanks! biggrin
lol I can never tell whether I'm actually good, or if I think I am cuz I wrote it....it helps to get some 3rd party readers. razz
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Posted: Sat Oct 16, 2010 2:07 am
I like 'caressing sighs of the night.' Even though it's not an option, I just like how that sounds. Like, personifying the night. I dunno. Mostly because I read that people like to personify the desert, and aspects of it, wind being an aspect of the desert, I guess.
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problematic briefcase Crew
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Posted: Sat Oct 16, 2010 8:25 am
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Posted: Sat Oct 16, 2010 3:49 pm
It sounds good. :3 They both sounded very good.
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problematic briefcase Crew
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