The Lover's Children

Chapter 33 – The Idylls of March #5

CHARLOTTE

Richard eases forward…

… then back again… “Charlotte, breathe.”

In…

Out…

“Again. Breathe.”

His body pierces mine, inch by swollen inch, sinking into me. My mouth is filled, my tongue pressed

flat. Saliva and tears stream. My nose waters.

Deeper he penetrates, and yet more deeply. The pressure on my throat is intense, but the pain is my

gift to him. This man, who has helped me so much, given me so much. And as he moves, easing back

and forth, as I relax, the discomfort retreats.

Penetrating me completely now, Richard groans. His fingernails clutch into my scalp, pinpricks of pain,

a counterpoint to the softness of his ball-sac pressed to my chin, the fuzz of hair at my face. His

breathing is loud and laboured. A trickle of sweat down his belly adds a briny tang to the musk of his

groin as he fathoms me.

With a grunt and a loud exhalation, Richard jolts forward, fingers locking around my head, locking me

to him as he Comes, pulsing deep into me.

But now, unmoving, Richard’s shaft plugs my airways. I can't swallow. Can't breathe. Something

buzzes, almost louder than the banging of my heartbeat, the hammering pulse behind my ears.

It's too much.

Too much.

My vision blackening at the edges, I slap the bed. And again.

And again.

But Richard, still in mid-climax, is already pulling out. Deep inside as he is, it takes a few moments to

withdraw his long cock. Eternal-brief seconds pass before I am released. Cum pulses hot and sweet

over my tongue, and as he exits completely, spatters over my face and neck.

I drop to my hands, coughing and choking, clearing my airways. Hands lift me from all sides, depositing

me to sit on the bed. Fingers work at the strap holding the gag in place, release the curb between my

teeth.

My Master sits to one side, patting between my shoulder blades.

“Charlotte?” Richard sounds contrite. “Charlotte, have I hurt you?”

“I'm fine.” I cough again, then massage my mercifully freed jaw, working circles into the muscles with

my fingertips. “Really, I'm fine.”

Michael presses a damp cloth into my hand, and I wipe my face and swollen eyes and lips, free of cum

and spit and snot and tears, then see I need to clean my chest and breasts.

Feeling foolish now, I sit up. A couple of deep lungfuls of air, and my head clears. Michael gives me a

glass of water.

Fingers pinch at my chin, steering me inexorably to my Master's face. He stares at me for a moment.

“You’re fine.” Then in dry tones. “You need another shower, Charlotte.”

“Yes, Master.”

*****

GEORGIE

For the fifth time, and without meaning to, I lean back a little to catch my reflection in the mirror behind

the bar.

It’s not easy, only a partial view, blocked by ranked bottles of spirits and liqueurs. Besides, I’ve already

checked myself over in the bathroom. I know that my make-up is well applied, my clothes look good

and there’s no spinach poking from between my teeth. I started the evening with my hair up, fussing

with a complicated knot-work of braids for nearly an hour before I decided it looked just too

complicated…

Casual venue…

Trying too hard…

… then spending another twenty minutes with comb and tongs smoothing it all out again. Now it drapes

over my shoulders, the glossy black of a raven’s wing, catching highlights from the spots.

The door swings, and on autopilot, I lean to see who entered…

Just some stranger…

One eye on the mirror again, I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, hesitate...

No, it looked better before…

... then tug it forward again to drape by my cheek. But now, my hair unkempt, I rummage through my

bag for my hairbrush, give myself a quick once-over, then stuff the brush back in the bag just as the

door opens again…

Is it him?

The Friday night crowd blocks my view, but above the throng, a head of silver-blond hair moves and

twists, one way, then the other. The crowd briefly parts…

… Borje pauses, taking in the room, then spotting me, strides forward, breaking into a star-burst smile.

Reflexively, smoothing the skirt over my knees, I check my reflection again, just in time for my date to

break through the horde. Hands outheld, he takes me by the shoulders, gives me a peck on the

forehead. "Georgie, you look beautiful."

My stomach tips. “You’re looking pretty good too.” Patting the leather-topped stool next to mine, "I

saved you a place."

"Thank you. But in fact, I booked us a table."

"You did?"

"I did.” He glances around. "And it’s just as well. On which point..." Borje raises a forefinger to the

barman. "... Table for two. Booked in the name of Anderssen for eight o'clock."

"Yes, Mr Anderssen. It's ready for you." The barman gestures to a waitress. "Marsha will show you. I’ll

take your coat."

‘Marsha’, pink and harassed-looking, leads us to our table: a lovely position by the window, looking

across the street over the Friday night bustle and buzz, towards the park.

Borje pulls out a chair, seating me. "When I booked, I asked for this spot. Plenty of chances for

watching the world go by." Doubt creeps into his voice. “Is this alright for you? I realised after I booked

that I’d not even asked if you like Mexican food?”

“Oh, yes. I don’t have it often, but I like it fine.”

“Good.” He brushes my cheek. "We have the evening ahead of us, and I wanted to share more than a

drink with you this time."

My face glows and I look away.

Ye gods… But you’re handsome…

Something flutters behind my ribs…

Then pounds…

He’s dressed against the chilly evening in a roll-neck sweater and casual pants. His eyes, an almost

glacial blue, are softened by deeply tanned skin. Scandinavian silver hair spills to his shoulders. If he

wore his hair short, he'd look like the guy that plays the Gestapo interrogator in the movies. As it is, it

shifts and shimmers like quicksilver. Women would kill for that hair.

“Looks like they’re short-staffed,” he comments.

“Hmmm, yes.” Across the floor, a long table, occupied by what could be a stag party, grows louder. It

may still be early, but it seems the party is well underway, the beer flowing freely.

Marsha stands over me, half an eye on the rowdies. “What can I get you?”

I slide a finger down the menu. “I’ll have the pork chile verde.”

She jots it down, still watching the loudmouths across the room, then to Borje. “And you?”

“The same. And tortillas, please.”

Marsha nods, muttering to herself as she scribbles onto her pad. “Tortilla…”

“Georgie? What would you like to drink?”

“Red wine, please.”

Borje returns the menus. “We’ll have a bottle of Tempranillo.”

“Gotcha.” The waitress returns in under a minute with the bottle and glasses, twisting out the cork with

practised skill. “Want to try it first?”

“I’m sure it will be fine.” Borje pours for me, then for himself, tries a sip and sighs. “I was ready for that.”

I sample my wine. It’s smooth and soft, earthy and deeply scented. “Yes, it’s very good. You sound

tired. Long week at work?”

“Always.” He sips again.

"What is it you do exactly? I don't think you've mentioned."

"Oh... Nothing you’d want to hear about." His gaze slides away, then back again. "Never mind me. How

was it for you at work today?"

"Oh, same old, same old. It doesn't vary much."

"You work in the university library? Do I have that right?"

“Some, yes. But mainly the museum.”

“Ah? What does that involve?”

“Oh, all sorts. It’s quite varied. Cataloguing specimens. Preparing exhibits. Deciding what to display

and what to keep down in the archives. Sometimes I give tours for school kids and students.”

His voice is dry. “I imagine that can keep you on your toes.”

“You’re not wrong there. The questions they come up with...”

“Such as?”

“Such as… Oh… Where do we get the fossils made? Do we import them from China?”

His eyes widen. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. Kids who’ve spent all their lives in cities and think everything comes from factories in plastic

wrap. Or the ones who’ve seen the Flintstones and won’t believe that humans and dinosaurs lived

seventy million years apart.”

He shakes his head. “Unbelievable. Is the library work so entertaining?”

“Well, I’ve amassed quite a collection of items left as bookmarks. Everything from bus tickets to sheet

music. Once, a rasher of bacon.”

Disbelief washes over his face. “So much for respect for learning. And the actual work involved?”

“It’s good. I enjoy it. I’m pretty much my own boss, so I can do what’s needed without anyone standing

over me and telling me what to do.”

He sobers, his eyes narrow a little. “Plenty of opportunities to meet people, I imagine.”NôvelD(ram)a.ôrg owns this content.