Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Elf and a Spottycat, Chapter 1

   By Adrian Mailenna

   Obligatory Disclaimer: This text contains sexually explicit material. 
Readers not inclined to such things, or under the age of legal consumption
of such material should find something else to read.  Secondary Disclaimer:
This is a rough draft.  It has only a working title and a marginally
permanent form.  Please feel free to offer me suggestions or point out
mistakes I may have made.

   A warm, ambery beam of sunlight crept between two gently-fluttering
curtains of fine linen, landing on smooth, dark-stained cherrywood.  As the
sun rose higher, the light slipped away from the wood, shimmering against a
sheet of rich blue silk, gently curved by the body beneath it.  It grew and
slipped steadily along, lingering guiltily on the full, sensuous curve of a
hip, before exploding into brilliance as it passed through a
beautifully-faceted decanter of crystal-clear water.  Melting across a
seam, the dappled patches of warmth crept further along the sheet and
dropped to liquidly smooth, tanned skin, sliding onwards to caress the
curve of a naked breast, full and deliciously firm in the flower of youth.
There they passed from the decanter's reach, merging to one over luscious,
wine-red lips.  Almost as in reaction, the sleeping lips parted and turned
slightly, a faint moan escaping as the sunny kiss slipped to a smooth,
flawless cheek.  Like a lover, the light crept higher, finally alighting on
a peacefully-closed eyelid.

   The eyelid's owner winced slightly, moving away from the light, and
blinked herself awake, pleasant surprise filling her mind like the warm,
enveloping afterglow of a passionate night's embrace.  That, too, was a
surprise, a comparison she might never have made scant months before.  She
was living a dream here, surrounded by stunning, unfamiliar luxury, like a
pearl snatched from a rough-shelled oyster and cherished in a velvety box,
and it surprised her to find the new day real before her.

   Saerah slipped from her bed, the satin sheets uttering a quiet sigh of
delight as they left her milky skin, falling gracefully from her slender
curves.  Warm terra-cotta caught her gentle footfalls as she crossed the
room and drew a warm brocade robe close around her shoulders, giving
herself a beautifully-embroidered veil of modesty as she opened the
curtains, filling the room in light.  It was so unfamiliar, she thought,
watching the square outside, and poured herself a goblet of water from the
decanter.  Two months ago, she would never have imagined such a place,
elegant and luxurious, artistic and simple at the same time.  She loved the
smooth, graceful marble youth in the square, somewhere between the
different beauties of elves and humans, much like herself, his outstretched
fingers beckoning to passers-by.  The market, off in the distance, called
her to explore its exotic wares, from brightly-colored fabrics and
exquisite metalwork to sumptuous fruit and game from far away.

   Perhaps, she thought, Kaasu would bring her a gift from it.  Crossing
the floor, Saerah sat before her mirror, reaching back to sweep her silken,
strawberry-blonde tresses free of the robe's confines.  Thoughts of her
friend, patron, and lover drifted through her mind as she slid a
bone-handled brush through the long fibres, trying to ignore the warm,
comfortable longing blossoming within her.  The bastard son of a nobleman
in some far-off land, he'd been sent to the city by his father, destined to
live out a life of mild wealth far from the reaches of his home's
sensitive, scandal-seeking ears.  Saerah laughed quietly to herself,
watching her china-blue eyes glitter back from the mirror.  "Mild wealth",
as Kaasu freely admitted, was purely relative.  By his father's reckoning,
his stipend would have provided for a few servants, the services of a cook,
his room, and a few sparse luxuries.  But things cost more in his far-off
home, and his peasant upbringing had left him little desire "to pay people
to nose around his business," so even with meals prepared for him when he
felt the desire, Kaasu could work as he pleased and still count himself
reasonably wealthy.

   A warm, pleasant thought, of his sleek, powerful muscles playing under
soft golden fur that caught the sun, drifted through her mind, and she
pressed her thighs together in excitement, squirming against the silky
fabric that pressed against her rear.  She could feel him, even now, as she
had felt him through the night, so tender and loving, and yet still so raw
and feral, brimming with the power and animalistic grace that she'd first
seen in him.

   Two months, she thought, brushing a few strands of hair from the tips of
her gently-pointed ears, just over two months since he had come into her
life, caught her eye, and stolen her away to this exotic luxury. 
Seventy-five days ago, he had ridden through the plains, slaloming through
the young trees on the edge of the forest, every bit as strong, wild, and
free as the chestnut-brown stallion that carried him.  Twenty-six weeks
ago, that fateful snake had surprised his horse, rearing up and baring its
fangs, changing her world forever.  She had been enjoying the first
exhilarating bath of the spring, delighting in the exquisite caresses of
her stream, swollen and chilled with the newly-melting snow, against her
naked skin, and she had hidden at his approach.  The warm, longing tension
grew again between her thighs as she remembered the confident, easy grace
he'd shown, turning his panicked mount so effortlessly into the woods. 
He'd turned, then, noticing her as she stood to watch him go, seen the
flash of flesh as she rose from the bushes.  Her eyes met his, just for a
second, and she called out to him, just barely too late.  A thick, leafy
oak branch had caught him full in the chest as he looked back at her,
knocking him from his mount.  Saerah winced as she remembered that horrid
moment, reliving the awful sinking feeling she had felt as he crashed into
the ground, the piercing snap of bones assaulting her ears, followed only
too quickly by the dull, final-sounding thump of his body against the
earth.

   He had lain there like a dead thing, knocked unconscious by one of the
smooth, uncaring stones beside the stream.  A warm, almost electric thrill
ran down her spine, lingering at the small of her back, as she remembered
the way she had crept to him, half excited and half afraid, and touched him
for the first time.  His fur was warm and silken, soft and giving as a
flower-petal, but hid powerful, predatory muscles beneath.  Unable to
resist, she had pressed her face to his cheek, kissing the falling
champion, and inhaled deeply of his sweet, faintly musky scent.  So
exciting that scent still was, Saerah thought, so exciting even in its
familiarity.  She even bore a touch of it herself, now, a constant reminder
of how completely he'd affected her.  She had never realized, never
imagined that the hour she spent bringing him back to the inn would bring
his affections so, or the whirlwind romance that left its marks all along
her body.  He might notice her, or perhaps excite her with tales of his
life, surely so much more exciting than her own, full of Aylesk's menial
tasks, and she hoped for nothing more.  Making the beds, cooking the meals,
serving the guests, cleaning...  surely he could bring her a little
excitement from that.

   He had disappointed her at first, she remembered, as she slipped back
onto the silken sheets, letting her robe fall open.  He had been fiercely
solitary, emerging to devour meals fit for small families, wash, and return
to the bolted sanctuary of his room, growling off her attempts at
conversation.  The first night, as she lay awake, remembering the image of
his teeth and claws rending meat from its bones with neat, savage ferocity,
she could hear him pacing, heavy, muffled footfalls beating out the rhythm
of the caged jungle cat.

   There was something exciting, though, something about his menace and the
confident, almost possessive glances he sent in her direction, and the
giggling jealousy he brought from her friends.  They whispered to her about
what a fine lover he might make, teasing her over the deep blushes that
rose in her cheeks.

   She took their suggestions, though, vying for his attention with the
other girls, wanting it desperately, but never able to match their
confident, open sensuality.  Her sarong slipped a little lower on her hips,
but never as low as the others, and she flirted with him, but never as
strongly.  He seemed to like her a little, though, encouraging her along,
changing her tips each night as to how well she pleased him, watching her
reactions with quick, alert eyes.  He confused her, though; he guided her
subtly into a slippery halfway between teasing and modesty, but his obvious
pleasure lay with her friends, enjoying his nearly-sexual banter with
whoever bared the most to his eyes and touch.

   They knew her jealousy, and they cut her with it, in the same
half-affectionate, half-cruel way that she'd suffered from them for years,
and from their sisters and mothers before them, caught in the awkward,
decades-long youth of her mother's blood, too boyish, too half-bloomed for
men her age, but too old for the boys who caught her fancy.  They cut her
in the dark and half-secret corners of the inn, stealing kisses and gropes
from him as they heard her coming.  They would sit in his lap as he took
his evening drinks, watching her seethe as they ground themselves against
him in long, hot kisses that dragged on for minutes, or dig her nails into
her palms as they coaxed him into sliding his hands across their voluptuous
curves.

   Perhaps, she thought, she only dreamt that he might have left her
messages in the coins.  He had asked her to his table, once, and talked a
little, and he even seemed to like her, but her friends enjoyed more of his
affections than she dared to dream.  Too often, she would round a corner,
only to find one of her friends pressed against the wall, panting excitedly
as she guided his bandaged hand beneath her shirt, or just below the edge
of her skirt.  They would always smile cruelly to her, then, and slip away,
pleading work, and Kaasu would smile and accompany Saerah for a while
instead, until some other girl caught his eye.

   Her hopes had lifted when he first let her into his room, his first
visitor, "not for chores," he said, "only a little company," and fell as
she first noticed his signet ring, that mirror-bright band of
amethyst-faced platinum.  She'd offered what help she could give him, then,
in the first and only time she had addressed him by title.

   He had laughed at her, not mockingly, but in the warm, friendly laugh
that one might use with a misunderstanding child.  "I'm no lord, little
one. My father, perhaps, but not me.  I'm just Kaasu." His hand had reached
out, patting her gently on the cheek.  "I'm not very fond of formalities."

   She chuckled, laughing at the Saerah of long ago, who had blushed at the
honor of using his name, returning his hand to his chest as she stood. 
"Saerah, Kaasu.  My name is Saerah."

   "Saerah," he had murmured, settling comfortably into the bed.  "Honey
and milk?"

   The younger Saerah had not understood, and thought that he was asking
for the traditional noonday snack for guests of the inn, that she had left
for him before.  He had fallen asleep by the time she returned with the
tray of food, laden with creamy milk, honey, and a few slices of warm,
fresh bread.

   "No, no, Saerah," he had laughed, after a moment of confusion.  His gaze
had wandered up and down her worried face before he spoke again.  "'Seh'
means 'honey' in my mother language, and 'ra' means 'milk'.  So your name
means 'honey and milk'." He hadn't told her, Saerah thought, whimpering at
the warmth that washed over her, spreading outwards from her fingers,
didn't tell her that it also meant 'honeyed milk', the sweet, intimate
taste of a lover.  He likely had not considered it, at least not with her.
They had broken the bread and shared it, eating in silence.  So different
he was, she had thought, so different from the artists' visions that
occasionally graced the covers of her threepenny romances.  He seemed only
faintly an animal, more a short-muzzled human than any beast, save for
those beautiful, inch-long fangs.  How odd, she remembered thinking, so odd
that the artists would bestialize their dreams, when the reality was so
much more elegant.  She had asked him of it that night as he shared a
bottle of expensive blackberry wine with her, her very first tastes of that
sweet, vibrant drink, first tasted excitedly from his fingertips, and then
from the cup he shared so freely with her, but he did not know.

   The grey, soft-edged memory floated through her mind, spiced with flecks
of vibrant color and ecstasy, as she let her hands, so small compared to
Kaasu's, wander up and down her body, releasing the last shuddering waves
of pleasure that he'd left behind.  Such huge, powerful hands he had, and
how gentle they could be, sliding her down his body until she stretched in
aching fullness over him.  They would hold her against his chest, stroking
her like a beloved kitten, warm and safe and yet so vulnerable, and she
would lie there, listening to the beat of her lover's heart.  It would
slowly fade from her hearing as she writhed against the hands that explored
her, drowned out by the purring that rose in his throat and the red haze of
pleasure that built all night and lingered long into the morning.

   Other times, Saerah remembered, whimpering as her fingertips slid
towards her hips, finding the sensitive, fading marks his claws had left
the night before, he would be rough and feral, so lost in passion that she
feared that he would hurt her with his size and ferocity.  And every time,
she would lose herself in the attentions of his hands and his warm, rough
tongue, screaming, begging for more into the darkness, until finally they
collapsed into sleep together, her satisfaction mixing with his and
staining the sheets beneath her hips.

   Saerah plucked a small star-melon from the bowl of fruit beside the bed
and stretched out comfortably on the sheets.  The soft, leathery rind
peeled away easily under her fingertips, and she began to suck the sweet,
tangy juice from the tender, fleshy fruit inside.  Kaasu had introduced her
to its simple pleasures, offering one to her as he raided the unspoiled
food and drink from his pack.  The memory stirred, and she rolled over,
propping herself up with a pillow, content to feel the satin sheets against
her skin once more.  Returning from another bath in her stream, she had
found him sitting beneath a tree, his pack's contents laid out like a
child's reapings before All Spirit's Eve.  She was naked, then, preferring
to let the sun kiss her dry, and he had wrapped a blanket around her as he
bundled her into his lap to share.  She felt like a kitten, wrapped so
comfortably and nestled into his fur.  From the sweet, tangy star-melon to
the small, pleasantly sour berries he called jedra', from the rich, earthy
flavors of the paper-thin slices of smoked fish and meat to the tepgul,
wrapped in a dozen layers of soft paper and tied with bright green,
gold-embroidered ribbons of silk, she let him feed her, every new taste a
treat she might never have again.

   He kept a few tepgul in a small box of sandalwood, she remembered, and
unwrapped one, placing it between her lips as he might have fed a child. 
They tasted like sweet plums, the size of large walnuts, she thought, with
pits that tasted of rich, fresh cream, and she had traced her fingertips
along the spots on his arms, stroking his soon-to-be-removed cast as he
told her their story.

   "The tepgul is a symbol, Saerah, a symbol of a cub's growth into a man,
and of his potency," he had told her, tracing his fingertips along the thin
trails of juice that had run down her chin and holding them still for her
to suckle them clean once more.  "When a boy is about to undergo the
Peyarra, he is given a seedling that has never bloomed by his mother, and
he must care for it.  When the first flowers begin to show, he will make
the first peyar, the first ritual scar, on the back of his right hand." She
had taken his hand away from her lips, then, cradling it in her lap,
feeling the rows of thin scars that ran below the beautiful golden fur,
following the rows across the back of his hand and the forearm beyond.  "He
lets the blood flow and water the plant, making a new peyar each day, until
the blossoms bear the plant's first fruit."

   "Oh, how horrible," Saerah remembered murmuring as she kissed one of the
faint scars.  "Does it take long?"

   "Oh, no, Saerah, not so horrible," he had laughed.  "It is a thing of
pride, you see, to bear many peyar, for it is said that the tepgul, so
bonded to its owner, is like a lover, and that a cub who will truly take
the masculine essence will hold the tepgul in delight for many days before
he allows it to bear fruit, for it is then that he will water it not with
blood, but with his first seed."

   The ritual was strange to Saerah, beautiful and exotic, and she had
listened eagerly of how the fruit were kept for a month before being aged
in rum and eaten to increase potence, how to take one freely with the hands
was an invitation for a night's company, and all the erotic mythology of
their first creation.  She asked him more questions as he moved on,
snuggling closer against his body and the warm, rhythmic beating of his
heart, and fell asleep soon after, her arms around his chest.  Dreams had
floated through her mind, hot as a summer afternoon and comfortably sexual
as Kaasu's soft, golden fur, and two hours had passed before she woke again
in his arms, a little patch of blanket then wet and slick against her rear.
"Come, little elfling," he had purred at her.  "You will soon be late for
your chores, and Aylesk will not be happy with you."

   She had dressed once more as Kaasu gathered his things, the hopes that
he would and would not discover the evidence of her arousal flickering
against each other in her mind.  Did he really steal a glance at her, as
she tied the sarong around her hips?  Was there just the faintest hint of
lust beneath his hand as it rested at her side, guiding her home?  She had
not known, and perhaps she never would.

   A thin trickle of juice trailed down her chin as she peeled the
star-melon further, suckling hungrily at its sweetness, and she brushed it
away with her fingertips, cleaning them between her lips.  Kaasu loved that
suckling, she remembered, and meowled like a serenading tomcat when she
took it to him, and she loved it as well, either familiarly exotic taste
mixing with the warm intimacy of the act to form blossoming tapestries of
arousal between her legs.  She had felt it even then, even virginally pure
and innocent, and that night, she had found need to sneak to her room and
whimper as fresh, cool cotton slipped over her hips once more, replacing
the warm, moistened fabric before it.  Even in serving dinner, she had no
release from the yearning that built within, only feeling it all the more
clearly with Kaasu's mysterious, almost-knowing smile and his invitation
for her to sup with him.  Was it true that his kind could smell arousal, as
they could fear?  He had not shown it, even when his purring hug goodnight
nearly sapped the strength from her knees, the low, comfortable feeling
against her body almost too much to bear.  She had slept naked that night,
basking in dreams of his attentions and the warm, blissful exhaustion of
her own.

   A sort of warm, gentle affection had grown between them, and it was not
long before he would accompany her about on her daily rounds, an
ever-faithful companion and protector.  He would have watched, then, or
perhaps helped, if it suited him, or merely shooed away the stinging
dung-flies, the nagi, as he called them, that swarmed so thickly whenever
she passed the stables, and she always welcomed the attention, returning it
with the small favors and backrubs that he loved.  They talked for hours,
and he told her that he found himself amazed at the grace of her years,
even as she found herself blushing, feeling once more the delightfully
soft, innocent happiness she hadn't felt since her first friends had left
her behind, so many decades ago.  Even into the village or the forests for
flower-picking, he would follow her, all with the same confident, powerful
bearing and half-amused smile, never objecting when she brought one of his
hands around her waist and rest it on the curve of her hip.  One of those
trips, Saerah thought, had brought that affection to passion.  She had
taken Kaasu flowerpicking, crawling into his lap from time to time to let
him braid new blossoms into her strawberry-blonde hair.

   She had always tied her braid with the ribbon from Kaasu's tepgul, then,
as she often did even now.  Perhaps, that day, a flower had tugged the
ribbon free, or perhaps she had not tied it as securely, but no matter the
cause, that treasured gift had come loose while she sat beside Kaasu amidst
the remains of his packed lunch, watching him whittle away a strip of wood
with his claws.  She had chased after it, the long streamer of green
flickering just out of her reach, until it caught in the branches of the
tree that had provided Kaasu's distraction.  Warm chocolate-brown leather
stretched taut against her hips as she climbed after her prize, and she had
been thankful for its protection from the oak's rough bark.

   Saerah arched her back like a stretching cat, enjoying the warmth of the
sun, and the wonder of her new home.  She was proud of the light, agile
frame that her mother's Elvish blood had granted her, and she had climbed
easily into its branches, until she found herself crouched against the
trunk, watching her ribbon flutter from a twig not far along its length. 
It had been a small enough slip, a tiny patch of moss beneath her shoe,
perhaps, but only a moment after she had reclaimed her ribbon, the
treebranch left from below her feet, and the ground came rushing up to meet
her, embracing her with darkness.

   Kaasu had faded in with the rest of the world, crouching over her as he
peered into her eyes.  "Saerah?" he whispered, patting at her cheek, and
earning a faint groan in return.  He had smiled at that, pressed the bridge
of his muzzle against her cheek, and whispered more.  "You worried me,
Saerah.  It would be most shameful if you hurt yourself in a fall like
that." His voice had carried a very real caring with it, she remembered,
and she had brought her fingers up to his face, letting them walk up the
spots on his cheek, to the back of his head, and pulled him down to her. 
She kissed him.

   It was the first time she had kissed him, the first and still the
sharpest in her memory.  She had kissed before, excitedly pinned between
that charming, dark-haired merchant's son and the wall of his room, too
caught in the urgency of the moment to find enjoyment in the stiff press of
his lips or the sliding of his hand down the small of her back.  Kaasu's
kiss began remeniscent of that boy's attentions, stiff and clumsy, but his
surprise had melted, turning the kiss fluid, warm and primal against her
lips.  Her mouth had opened a little, letting her tongue glide against the
smooth, white edges of his teeth, and his had opened in turn, suckling
gently at it as his own tongue, broad and rough against hers, began its
exploration.  His hands had explored, too, as he lowered himself to her,
wrapping her in his arms, and she had enjoyed it, so small against him, so
vulnerable and desired, like some priceless gem.

   The kiss caught her on a rising tide of pleasure, and she barely noticed
the passing time as they lay together in that clearing of flowers.  One
kiss flowed into the next and then another beyond, until at last they faded
into gentle pecks, the ardor warming her even as the earth cooled, its
skies burned golden by the setting sun.  She warmed, now, too, by
excitement, the warm sunbeams that blanketed the room, and the gentle
wanderings of her fingers, tracing their paths along the smooth curves of
her belly as they remembered his words.  "You're a beautiful girl, Saerah,
with beautiful hands and delicate fingers, full lips and ivory teeth,
delightful lashes and bright, clear eyes," he purred, following his praises
with light, gentle kisses.  "Ah, and lovely, red hair and such wonderful
ears." How or if he had known of that secret pleasure before, she might
never learn, but he knew then, and that younger Saerah had gasped in sudden
pleasure, his lips pressed to her ear's gentle point, and found herself
arching upwards against him as the sparks of feeling crackled down her
spine.

   Her beating heart had been nervous and fluttery, then, the way it was
now, and her hands almost shook as she traced them down Kaasu's muscled
sides, feeling his thick, warm fur.  They stopped at his belt, and she
sucked in a deep breath, looking up into his eyes, glittering pools of
rich, dark coffee.  "Kaasu..." She sighed, nervousness overtaking her, as
she slid the polished sandalwood box from its leather pouch at his waist.
"I remember," she whispered, slipping one of the tepgul-fruit from its
wrapper, and ate for a moment, raising herself from the ground to kiss his
stunned lips once more, leaving the faint aftertaste in his mouth as she
settled down once more.

   Saerah remembered, faintly, that he had chosen the alcove in the corner
that night, instead of his usual table, playfully swatting her across the
rear as she delivered his food.  The healer had removed his splints, and
Kaasu was in higher spirits than usual, joking amiably with Aylesk and the
other patrons as he ate.  She had been delighted at his rise in spirits and
did her serving in a pleasant haze, not noticing - or perhaps not wanting
to notice - when he ordered a bottle of wine and slipped into the cellar
behind her as she left to fetch it.

   He had caught her unaware, pressing her snugly between the warm softness
of his fur and the cool, hard stone of the cellar walls, and swallowed her
gasp of surprise as he kissed her once more, deeply and full of passion. 
She had welcomed his hands and their exploration, melting in their embrace.
They had stopped, one across her back, the other cupping her hips, so
comfortable there that she wished she could live in his embrace, safe and
warm, forever snuggled against him.  "I've dreamt of tonight, Saerah," he
whispered, fluttering his tongue against the tip of her ear.  A deep
hunger, one she had never felt before, took her, and she clutched herself
closer against his warmth, pulling his face against hers to enjoy that
little intimacy once more.

   And then it was over.  He let her slide gently down the wall, put the
bottle of wine into her hands, and walked back out with her, holding her
around the waist as he always did, and returned to his meal, only smiling
faintly at her.  Teram, an ever-watchful drunk, had noticed the longing
gazes that Saerah threw at her feline companion, and laughed at her girlish
desires.

   "You're too old for him, Saerah," he had told her.  "How old can he be?
Twenty-five?  Thirty?  You're older than Alyesk, nearly fifty and still a
too-tall fifteen.  He'll want a woman, Saerah, not a little girl, and
certainly not a half-blooded one.  He's leaving soon, he says, and mark my
words, as old as you are, you don't act it, and, if he takes a fancy to
anyone, it'll be one of your friends, not you."

   The words unnerved her, only slightly, and though she took comfort in
Kaasu's words, her body trembled at the fires that grew within it.  Would
they remain unquenched?

   That night, just barely less than five months ago, Saerah had sprawled
out in bed, luxuriating in her naked vulnerability and the sweet, warm
fantasies that would soon play out between her sheets.  She had taken a
deliciously hot bath, scented with the blossoms from her hair, even taking
a bottle of the blackberry wine that Kaasu had shared with her the first
night he had come.  It had cost her nearly a week's wage, but, she had
reflected, a first night came only once, and she wanted her time with
Kaasu, so magnificent and proud, so surely a wonderous lover, as perfect as
could be.  A few long tapers cast dim, erotic shadows across the room,
fiery and vague as her anticipation.

   The tapers had burned lower, but her desire only grew.  He did not come.
Nervousness dragged its cold, barbed nails across her mind.  Perhaps he
would not come.  Perhaps she had pressed too far; perhaps Khuero had been
right, and he had been humoring her.  Perhaps she had broken the subtle
magic between them.  Faint, panting moans of lovemaking came from the floor
below.  Were they Kaasu's, or perhaps his chosen lover's?  She shuddered at
the thought, bundling the sheets around her.

   The tapers burned lower still.  Still he did not come.

   One by one, the tapers had guttered and died.  With them died her hopes,
and she rolled over in bet, cold and alone.  Her pillow, hugged tight
against her face, provided a little comfort, and she wept into its soft,
familiar embrace.

   She had awoken again into darkness, the tears still wet on her face. 
The night was still black, but she could sense someone, someone in the
darkness, watching her.  Almost silently, the sheets began to slide down
her back, exposing her skin, no longer hot from her bath, to the cool night
air, and a delicate, gentle kiss found itself pressed between the blades of
her shoulders.  Another soon joined it, a tiny bit of an inch lower,
following the electric thrill that raced down her spine, and a heavy,
commanding weight joined her in the bed, connecting the two with an even
stroke of a warm, rough tongue.  "My, my, Saerah..." came Kaasu's
familiarly liquid, purring laugh.  "Is this for me?"

   Only a whimper of assent had escaped Saerah's lips as Kaasu's hands slid
the sheets still lower, and she had arched her back against them to meet
his kisses, each followed by the same even, grooming caress of his tongue.
His hands would not let her, though, holding the sheets firmly against her
skin, until they had let the fabric flutter to the bed and cupped her hips
in their soft, velvety pads.  Even now, excitement thrilled through
Saerah's spine, blossoming across her back, as she remembered the way he
had brought her rear up to his lips, kissing the tiny bead of pleasure he
found there, and now she slipped her fingertips through the thin triangle
of downy, strawberry peachfuzz, into her own intimate warmth, teasing the
treasured memory awake.

   His tongue had been gentle against her flesh, like a kitten's at a bowl
of cream, but she had pressed back against his lips and the rough,
agonizing pleasure that he offered.  Helpless in her pleasure and her
lover's strong, comforting grip, she had squirmed in the cool darkness of
the night, full of the ecstasy and anticipation that he brought.  He played
her so well, she remembered, making her beg, as queens in heat begged their
toms, before he followed the crease of her rear back up her spine and held
her close.  "Seh ra indeed, little elfling," he whispered, trailing
silk-furred fingertips over her belly, and licked his lips.  "Golden like
honey and soft and rich as milk."

   A hot blush had risen in her cheeks, and she had turned away from his
voice, trying not to feel the strong, persuasive hand that massaged so
enticingly at her breast, lips that brushed against her ears.  Kaasu
pressed his muzzle against her hair, inhaling deeply, and she raised her
hips to meet his, quivering in anticipation.

   He only brought the sheets up around her again, though, as he slipped to
her side, holding her close as she melted into the safe, tender embrace. 
"You're a virgin, aren't you, Saerah?  You're pure.  You smell like it. 
You taste like it."

   She could only nod silently, blushing again as she tried to bury her
face into the thick, luxurious white fur of his chest.

   "You honor me, Saerah," he whispered, kissing at the tip of her ear.  He
squeezed her a little more firmly, purring as his hands slid down her sides
and pressed her hips to his own.  A deep breath filled his chest, pressing
against her.  "And that's why I shouldn't."

   Saerah looked up at him, confused and nearly ready to cry once more. 
"Don't you want..."

   A kiss between the eyes quieted her.  "More than anything, Saerah. 
There's nothing I'd like more than to take you, hold you close, and love
you in a thousand different ways." He paused, letting the words sink in. 
"But a girl's purity is a most special gift, Saerah, and a man would only
take a slave's or a whore's all at once.  You mean more than that, Saerah,
so much more."

   He seemed to mean it.  Her body begged release, though, and she searched
for an excuse, any excuse, that might let him grant it.  "They say time
will wait for love," she murmured.

   He had considered that for a moment, then rolled over, holding her
beneath his body.  "Will it wait twelve nights to one?"

   She shook her head a moment, scattering her hair across the pillow, and
settled down, looking up through the darkness to Kaasu's eyes, glowing in
the darkness.  "For you, Kaasu, it would wait a thousand," she whispered.
And it was true; from the ache in her heart to the yearning between her
legs, all she wanted was to surrender herself to the magnificent creature
who had ridden into her life and changed it forever.

   "First night," he whispered, his tongue licking out at her cheek.  "A
kiss, nothing more." He touched his lips to hers, a feather kiss, and she
opened her mouth to his, expecting more, but he pulled away.

   Saerah whimpered, trying to continue the kiss, but he held her still. 
How would she bear her anticipation through twelve?

   Another kiss pressed against her lips, this time full and passionate as
the kisses before, and filled her willing mouth with the explorations of
his tongue.  "Second night, Saerah, a mixing of breath."

   He poured a glass of wine, sipping at it appreciatively.  "Third night,"
he continued.  "A drink of wine, from me to you, and you to me." He kissed
her again, more deeply, swallowing her moan of lust as she discovered the
draught of blackberry still in his mouth.  She drank deeply of it, hungrily
refusing to let him go, until the kiss tasted no more of that rich,
familiar taste.  The next glass was for her, and in turn, she held a drink
for her lover, feeling him drink it and explore her mouth for more.

   A hand slid beneath her sheet, strong, warm, gentle, and possessive, as
if it knew how much Saerah was willing to give.  "Fourth night.  A touch of
naked skin." The hand crept down her spine, letting its fingertips rest in
the crease of her rear as it pulled her closer still.  "Seh ra indeed,
little elfling.  You have such perfect skin...  like milk, tinted golden
with honey."

   The fifth night found his hand at her breast, massaging her delicate
flesh with his strong fingers and barely-sheathed clawtips.  Her nipples
hardened into tiny stones at his touch, and once again Kaasu's waiting kiss
swallowed her moaning, lapping it from her mouth with long, gentle
explorations from his tongue.  The kiss broke, but her whimpering continued
into the sixth, as he peeled the sheets away, exposing her to the cold
night air and the warm softness of his fur.  Night seven found her yelping
in some beautifully absurd pleasure-pain as he nursed at her breasts,
suckling away the last droplets of self-control with lips and teeth and
tongue, and she hungrily pulled his clothes away, savoring the frantic,
lusty kisses and gropes that filled the eighth.

   Through the ninth, he traced her body in kisses.  From her ankles he
kissed her, creeping up her legs with hands and lips alike.  Sharp,
delicate love-bites left their marks at the curve of her hip, and Saerah
found herself pulled along, lifted up into Kaasu's lap as he wandered
higher.  Soon she found him suckling on her eartips, feeling her writhe in
that ticklish, guilty pleasure.  She was straddling his hips, held safe and
deliciously helpless in powerful arms that wrapped around her body to cup
her rear like a peach, and every quick, ragged breath was filled with the
faint, musky smells of his body and her arousal, so obvious now that even
she could smell it.  "Kaasu..." she pleaded, drawing his name out into a
plea.

   "Yes, Saerah?"

   "Can this night last a little longer?"

   He answered with a little squeeze against her rear, letting his hands
begin their wondrous dance anew.  They coaxed her with gentle caresses and
firm, confident pressure, an endless tease that drew the veils of lust
thicker and thicker around her, until she could hear herself begging for
him, begging to be held down and given release, but she could not feel the
words falling from her lips, only her desire, hard and insistent,
threatening to consume her.

   "Tenth night, Saerah," she heard him whisper.  "Your turn to touch." Her
fingers slid through thick, soft fur, clutching at the smooth muscles
beneath.  She nuzzled against the milky-white fur of his chest, murring,
and some deep, wordless desire pulled her hands along, away from his neck,
down through the powerful, sensuous geometry of back and sides, to the hard
flesh that pressed against her belly.  This marvelous thing...  what would
she call it?  It was too real to be "penis", too passionately sexual for
"member", too wonderful for "prick"...  but "cock" seemed to fit, from the
way the word filled her mouth and felt so wonderfully forbidden...  yes. 
This marvelous cock, hot against her fingertips, would soon push into her,
filling her for the first time.  Excitement thrilled down her spine, tinted
with fear, as she circled it with her hand, her fingertips barely meeting.

   "Kaasu..." she whimpered, nervous now, for the first time since the
nights had begun.  "This is going to-"

   His strong hands lifted her, bringing her up to a kiss between her eyes.
"Hurt, Saerah?  A little, for a moment." He leaned forward, gently turning
her, until she crouched beneath him on the bed.  "But now begins the
eleventh night, my little elfling.  Trust me."

   Saerah had felt him press the smooth flats of his teeth against the back
of her neck, then the warm, even play of his breath against her ears, so
exquisitely sensitive now, but slowly, a more pressing feeling came, the
slow, sliding tease between her legs.  Kaasu was pressing the flat of his
cock, yes, that was the word, against her body, teasing her still with its
smoothness and the little collar of downy-soft fur around its base, and she
blushed hotly as she felt the faint, telltale signs of her moisture coating
him and trickling down her thighs.

   When she could take no more of his teasing, when she had lain beneath
him, begging for him with every soft, panting breath, only then had the
twelfth night begun.  She remembered the firm pad of his hand, sliding down
her belly to cup between her thighs, spreading her slightly, and the hot
press of his flesh against hers as he found her tender folds, lingered for
a moment, trembling with the slow, deliberate effort, and kissed her,
swallowing up her scream as he eased himself into her.  She remembered the
scream, filled with that absurd mixture of the pain and delight of
stretching tight against him, like being torn in half around his body and
filled with sheer, impossible bliss.  She remembered the climax, too, a
pure, white energy planted by the mad tangle of limbs and watered by the
long, beautiful groans of pleasure they shared together, growing deep
within her body, somewhere even Kaasu could not reach, and exploded into an
ecstasy that reached even her bones, thrashing her hard against his
powerful, silk-furred embrace.  It filled her existence, wiping out the
world, the inn, and even herself, until all she knew was Kaasu, Kaasu and
the wonderful, screaming delight.

   -- Copyright 2004 Adrian Mailenna.

   Personal use encouraged.  All other rights reserved.
   ftp://ftp.asstr.org/pub/Authors/adrian_mailenna