The Phoenix and the Griffin

Amaras grasped the mantle in his hands, stood ankles crossed staring into the fire. The night had been successful, at least it felt successful.

Phaila’s hands snaked around his waist, and she pressed her chin against his shoulder.

“I have been thinking of you under these,” she slid her hand under the waist of his breeches, “all night.”
“Have you?” He answered huskily back.
“Igen, szeretett.” She whispered back, grasping him with strong fingers. The flaccid member answered her touch, filled, and opened her hand wider. Her left hand stripped the buttons, freeing him, giving her more room and she cupped his heavy sac. Amaras uncrossed his ankles, spread his legs, and rocked his hips. He unbuttoned his tunic, his shirt; it was too hot standing before the fire under the heated attention of his wife. He clung to the mantle again, her left hand caressing upward through the nest of hair, over his abdomen, ribs, across his chest to drag her nails over his nipples. He lay his head back, moaned to the ceiling, stroked into her hand. She tightened her fingers, he gasped and she cradled him again, tugged downward on his tightening pendulum; he rocked into her before turning in her arms and bearing her backward until they crashed against the desk. He spun her, shoved her down, held her there with his hand in the middle of her back, and yanked at the long skirt, dragged it up as he kicked her feet apart.

Phaila lay stunned by with his display of strength, thanked god she was prone her legs had left her completely at his lustful attack. She closed her eyes, licked her lips, and struggled impatiently under his fumbling.

Finally, she was bared to him; he bent his knees, nudged against her moist opening, and slammed into her driving a cry of pain from both of them. Brutishly he pounded into the tender flesh, clutching her hip in one hand, he ripped the back of her gown open, and buttons flew and bounced off the floor. Again, his hand settled in the place between her shoulder blades, with her hair wound round his fist. Pants turned to grunts, and he whipped his head back.

Phaila’s hands scrabbled across the desk, clawed at the wood, pinned she could not move on him, the ache for release untouched. She felt the first throbs, the herald of his orgasm.

“Oh God!” He growled and held to her hips with both hands now, lifting her. Phaila pressed her forehead against the wood; at this angle, he struck the ache repetitively. She hissed, pushed back against his deep plunges, held her breath, and struggled under his restraining hands that moved her for his pleasure. He called out again, dragging her up, holding her firmly as he bucked, deeply embedded, and flooded her. Phaila’s voice echoed, muffled against the desktop.

He let er her hips, leaned his hands on the desk, his head drooped, breathed long, shuddering breaths and looked at the ruin of her gown. He kissed her shoulder.

“I have made a rag of your dress, feleség.”
“You have made a rag of me,” she laughed breathless.
“Give me a moment, I cannot move yet,” he pressed his forehead against her shoulder.

Amaras pulled from her, limp now, he would, they would, be sore in the morning, tugged down her skirt, and helped her as she pushed herself up from the desk.

In bed, he examined the straight line of bruises over the tops of her upper thighs. She pulled the towel from her head, tossed it on the chair, and stretched out. Amaras met her eyes guiltily.

“Bruises fade, Amaras,” she purred. “And I did enjoy the getting of them.”
“Did you, kedevelt?” He needed convincing.
“I have never minded,” she rolled to prop her chin on his hard stomach and peered up at him. “Truly.”

He sighed, stroked her cheek with his thumb, caught the back of her neck in his fingers, and drew her up for a kiss. He settled her in the crook of his neck, pulled the blankets up and together they listened to the sound of the rain on the windows.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Isóng struggled under his hand before the fireplace. Gasping and moaning he battered himself. When he had arrived at his room, he had torn fiercely at his clothing while memory was still fresh. He had danced his last dance with Phaila to carry the scent of her away on his clothes and hands to his room.

He ran his left hand over his face, yes, here he could smell her, he ran his hand over his cheek, over his mouth inhaling deeply, he ran his fingers over his lips, flicked his tongue over them, in his mind delving them in the secret fold of her body. He staggered on quivering legs, caressed his goose-fleshed chest, and tweaked an aching nipple, his hips grinding into his fist. “Isóng,” her voice echoed in his mind, her head cocked just so, eyes catching the torchlight…eyes blazing a green fire. Hises bes buckled, “Ahhhhh, God!” He cried out as his seed spilled over his fingers.

He undressed with pleasure weak hands and walked to his bed; collapsed to hug a pillow and lay with staring eyes.

Igen - yes
szeretett - love
kedevelt - beloved
feleség - wife