Genres: Fantasy, Historical
Collections: Bending the Bard
Editor(s): Kel Draves
Cover Designer(s): Siol na Tine
Cover Art Credits: Original art by William Hamilton.
Production Editor(s): Erika L. Firanc
Proofreader(s): Kaye O'Malley
Length: Short Story (2,000 Words)
Publication Date: February 25, 2014
Serialization Date: June 4, 2017
Archive(d) on June 11, 2017
Tags: Bending the Bard, m/f, Shakespeare, Short Story
Content Labels (What they are and why we use them)
She stared at me a moment, with the wide eyes of a frightened animal. As I stood, my hand unthinkingly closed around a fallen branch from the tree. It was thick and long enough to reach from the ground to my chest. Startled by my movement, she started to scamper away like an animal but I called out.
She stopped and looked at me, questioning, with a hint of deference in her eyes. Holding the branch in my hand like a staff, I reached down and helped her to her feet.
“I am a sorcerer of no small art.” I proclaimed. “It was I who freed from this oak’s knotty entrails.”
Her eyes lingered on the length of wood as though she recognized it from her captivity. Gingerly, she touched the shard of her former prison, fingers brushed down the length to stop at my hand. When she reached my fingers, her gaze became soft, as one remembering some long forgotten story. She felt the power in my flesh, the magic that still hummed through me.
“You owe me much, sprit,” There was a hint of warning to my voice.
Slowly she nodded and sank to her knees. Her eyes rose to meet mine, open and unguarded. “What would you have me do?” she asked, the inflections of my speech still new to her tongue. The cloak hung slightly open as she knelt, baring a glimpse of her naked flesh. Desire stirred within me, aroused by her strange beauty, her simple pliancy. Her flesh seemed delicate and inviting of use.
Boldness crept into me and I said, “You are mine now.” I cannot say how I gained such knowledge or the will to say it. I only know that I knew it to be true, that it felt right to say.
She bowed her head, making no objections. She kissed my feet, called me master, and confirmed her supplication. Her hands slid up my legs, kisses followed not far behind. As she touched me, my skin let slip its secrets. Her hands grew surer with each passing instant, each caress more pleasing than the last. Unaccustomed as I was to such servile forwardness, I was taken aback.
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